As Luck Would Have It
by girloficeandfire
Summary: Somewhat fluffy futurefic - also crack!fic in a way - set post-ADWD. Sansa has been fighting to not lose herself completely to Alayne; help is on the way in the form of a certain loyal dog.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

_Phew. I originally started this before I ever thought up my first long SanSan fic (An Opportune Escape). In fact I started it as a semi-AU/semi-FutureFic. It is still the latter, but because it does involve a storyline that many others have taken up I wanted to try to make it a bit…different. So there is some information that may be not truly canon (okay, probably simply _isn't_ canon, heh), as I wanted to play [mostly] with the characters and [a little bit] with the setting despite this being an oft-repeated futurefic storyline. Please don't hate me for it? :) I suppose I'd describe this as fluffy, at least what I've written so far, and possibly also sort of crack!fic.  
><em>

**ALAYNE**

She wrapped her cloak tight about her shoulders and steeled herself. Though it was much warmer here at the Gates of Moon, winter was still in the air. _Winter is coming_, she thought automatically, but quickly pushed those words out of her head. Those were another girl's words, a highborn girl with red hair. An orphan girl. "Dear Father, could I have a moment?"

"Yes, Alayne?" Lord Petyr looked up at her, obviously exasperated, his emphasis on her name pointed, harsh.

_As if I often bother you,_ Alayne thought. In truth, the more time she spent in the Vale the more she also attempted to avoid her father. His unwanted kisses were rare enough, she supposed, and maybe also something of a tax for his rescuing her...but then she caught him _looking_at her sometimes, and remembered him saying "Only Cat", and then a shiver would run down her spine...

"Alayne? Did you need something?"

"I - I'm sorry, father. I was distracted..."

"Obviously."

Alayne armed herself against Lord Petyr's sarcasm. "Father...I was hoping I might...be able to go into the valley. To ride a bit, to get some fresh air before it snows again."

"Alayne...you know that would not be wise. It is not safe to wander in these times...it is _especially_not safe for you to do so."

"Father, I promise not to wander far. I will even take Mya with me, if it pleases you."

Lord Petyr leaned back and eyed her warily, but she could tell that he was thinking. It seemed hours before he finally shrugged and leaned back over his letters. "Fine. I will be leaving the Vale in two days' time - I have business to attend to in the Riverlands, before it becomes even more treacherous to travel. You may ride with me the morning I leave. Mya _will_attend you, and I will be sure to send someone to collect you before dinner."

"Yes, Father, yes, thank you!" Alayne cried, rushing forward and kissing him on the head. She turned to leave and he grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her into his lap.

"You'll be a good girl, then?" he whispered, tracing her jawline with his fingertip. She did her best to not shudder, knowing that if she did it likely mean the end of her day of riding. She had never enjoyed being on horseback before, but just now it seemed like the last freedom she was like to have for quite some time.

"Of course," she said fiercely. "I may be naive, Father, but I am _not _stupid."

"Thanks to me," Lord Petyr grimaced. He pushed her off his lap and shooed her away with a wave of his hand. "Now leave me, before I change my mind."

Alayne forced herself to curtsy politely before she left the room, but once she was out of sight and earshot she practically ran to her chambers. She had been stuck up in the Eyrie for so long, and then here at the Gates of Moon under her father's constant watch. She blamed the fact that she rarely slept well on her restlessness, but really it was the dreams that kept her awake at night. Dreams...or nightmares. She'd long ago lost touch with which they were. More often than not she dreamed of King's Landing and the Battle of Blackwater Bay...and the Hound.

How many times had she asked herself, _Why didn't I go with him?_ She knew why she hadn't immediately said yes - his drunkenness and his hideously scarred face had frightened her, of course. But then she sang to him, and he cried, and she thought that if she touched him she wouldn't have to say the words...

She'd been wrong. He'd gone then, and left only his cape behind. His cape...and the memory of his kiss. And the more time that passed, the more she thought of him, of that night, that kiss, that invitation. She'd long ago forgotten why he'd frightened her so, long ago stopped seeing his scars as something ugly. Joffrey had been a monster...Tyrion had been kind to her, but he was half a man...Harry was supposedly handsome, but he was also lecherous, if the stories she heard were true. The Hound may have been scarred, but he was tall and muscular - he had a build even the best knights would envy. He would have been able to protect her, and in his own way he had even almost been _kind _to her at times.

And so she dreamed of him. She dreamed of him more and more lately, in fact - often while she was sharing a bed with Randa. The other young lady had dragged it from Alayne that she had been kissed once; ever since that admission Randa had felt it necessary to instruct Alayne in regards to men and to the making of love. Though at first Randa's stories and advice had made Alayne blush and stutter, as of late she had found herself listening intently, even asking questions, and filing the information away. _If you are to be a bastard, best know the things a bastard would know_, she told herself, but deep down there was also a part of her that was curious about these things. And that curiosity had to be a large part of why her dreams of late had featured more than her memories of wildfire on the Blackwater and the Hound's lips on hers; rather, the Hound in these new dreams went much farther than a kiss and she would wake with an aching and a wetness between her thighs...

Alayne pushed all of them - Littlefinger, Tyrion, Joffrey, Randa, and the Hound, the Hound, above all the Hound - from her mind. She had something to look forward to now; there was no use in looking back, looking into the life of the girl she was no longer supposed to be.

* * *

><p>As the small group - Lord Petyr, Lothor Brune, a small contingent of guards and of course, Mya - made their way from the Gates of the Moon, Alayne tipped her head back and drank in the bright, almost warm sunlight - the same sunlight that had lit the Eyrie during the day, yet it was so thin and weak up there. She liked the sun, the smell of the grass and trees, even the feel of the shaggy mountain pony between her legs. Or at least she <em>told<em> herself she did. But this wasn't true freedom. She could only ride so far, and soon one of Lord Petyr's men would return to bring her..._home_. The word felt bitter on her tongue, even as she tried to make it sweet. _This is not your home_, a little voice reminded her - constantly.

Her reverie was broken when she heard her father instructing Mya to keep an eye on his daughter. Brune was watching the dark-haired, blue-eyed girl, and Alayne thought he almost looked to be blushing when he said his own farewells. "Don't let that wild little pony run off with you," Lord Petyr joked, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. Mya snorted - Alayne was already not exactly thought to be forward or brave, especially when riding - but Alayne herself noticed that Petyr's eyes were not twinkling. It was a false jape, what he said, but she smiled prettily, just as she was supposed to do.

"Of course not, father. Safe travels yourself, and I hope to see you return soon," she said.

"Very soon, I think, daughter. Now go have your fun but do not ride too far - someone will come for you before dusk, remember."

Alayne nodded obediently. She and Mya watched the men ride off toward the Bloody Gate, just barely visible in the distance. As soon as they were out of sight, the other girl grinned wickedly.

"Speak for yourself about being careful and not riding far," Mya said. "If it's all right with you, I'm going to have myself a good run. This may be the last time I get to do so." Alayne rolled her eyes, but inside she thrilled a bit at the idea of being alone.

"Of course, do not worry about me. Meet back here later, I suppose?" she suggested.

Mya nodded. "Just don't let it get back to your father that I left you by yourself. I've never met a man so concerned with his bastard daughter's whereabouts." The corner of her mouth twitched a bit, but Alayne did not take Mya's comments personally. Mya was a bastard herself and no father had ever come asking after her; it was only natural that she should be amused at Lord Petyr's obvious interest in his own bastard daughter. She nodded and Mya whipped her own pony around and galloped off. For her own part, Alayne was content to let her own mount trundle around at its own will. The animal apparently did not care to wander far - neither back toward the Gates of the Moon nor closer to the Bloody Gate. Eventually she let the reins go slack and tilted her head back again, wondering when the skies would go grey for good and how long winter would last.

Suddenly there was a rustle in a grove of trees nearby and her pony started, snorting wildly. Alaynes heart was in her throat but she found herself thinking, _You are a wolf! Be brave!_as she dismounted and tried to calm the animal. "M...Mya? Is that you?" she called, her voice thin and pinched. There was another rustle behind her and she clenched the reins in her fear, forcing herself to breathe, breathe, breathe.

And then a gruff voice said, "Little bird," and Alayne turned to see a ghost, or what must be a ghost because she'd been told of the Hound's death and yet here he was in front of her - more gaunt than she remembered, no longer clothed in the plain yet fine raiment he'd worn in King's Landing and before - but the Hound nonetheless.

Alayne fainted.

* * *

><p><em>There were flashes of memory, and some of it was Sansa's and some of it was not. She saw the Hound enter Winterfell and felt herself draw back from his hideous visage, and then she saw herself through his eyes, eyes that took her in appraisingly...but then he balked at her revulsion and the scene changed...<em>

_This time she was watching him return from hunting down the butcher's boy on the kingsroad journey and wanting to scream at the needless violence that had been done to the innocent child...but then she was in his head and chasing Mycah down and it was not he who murdered the boy, but some unknown and unimportant Lannister rider. "What have you done?" the Hound exclaimed angrily. "Idiot! Lord Eddard will make sure you lose your head for this!"_

_"Cersei commanded us to take him," the man shrugged, his mean little eyes gleaming._

_"Go," the Hound growled. "I'll parade him through camp and then I'm taking the body to his father. He deserves to know what happened to his son."_

_"If you take the glory, you take the blame too," the other scoffed._

_"So be it."_

_And then the memories of King's Landing flew by; his gallant rescue of Ser Loras in the tournament, his kindess to her, his refusal to beat her the way Joffrey's other men did. And that night in her tower room when she sang for him, and she was in her body, singing and frightened, and then in his, angry and drunk. She sang, and he cried, and he removed his blade, tore off his cloak and left her._

_The truth of the matter slammed into her like a battering ram - he'd never kissed her. She'd felt what he felt as he looked at her - lust beyond all imagining, then pity, frustration, and finally sadness. He'd known she wouldn't want to kiss him, so he hadn't kissed her at all._

* * *

><p>When Sansa awoke, she was laying in a small clearing surrounded by brush and saplings. She wasn't hurt, that much she knew, and her head was resting on a lumpy bag. She sat up slowly and there he was - the Hound, <em>her<em>Hound, leaning against a nearby tree and watching her intently. "How long..." she began to ask, when she noticed how dim the light was as it seeped through the canopy overhead.

"An hour. Maybe two," he shrugged. "You...you were dreaming."

Sansa cocked her head. "Something like that," she admitted. "Did I...did I say anything?"

The Hound looked away from her, which was unusual - in the past he had nearly always looked her straight in the eye, and while that had always frightened Sansa it also told her that he was being honest. This time, when he replied, "Nothing of import," she knew he was lying.

"Tell me."

He moved restlessly. "You cried out a name. _Mycah_. You whispered some of the Mother's song. And then you said, 'kiss me'."

"I said that?" He nodded, and Sansa blushed fiercely.

"Who is Mycah?" the Hound finally asked, still avoiding her gaze.

Sansa was confused. There was something in his tone that she was sure she'd never heard before, especially not from him. In fact, not from any man, though she had heard it from her Aunt Lysa when Lord Petyr was caught kissing her, and she'd seen it in her lady mother's eyes when she looked on Jon Snow, her father's bastard son.

_Jealous__y_.

"Why, Mycah was the butcher's boy. On the kingsroad? The one you - the one who was killed by one of Cersei's men."

The Hound looked at her then, finally, and now he was the one who was confused. He shook his head and she could tell that he thought he'd misheard; she decided to drop that subject. "What are you doing here?" she inquired, tucking her legs underneath her and settling in for his story.

But the Hound was a man of few words, and his response was simply, "I've come for you."

Sansa knew she should be frightened, but suddenly she felt safer than she had in a very, very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

How long had it been since the visitors had come to the Quiet Isle? He had lost all track of time after they had gone and the Elder Brother had come to him with his request. A request that Sandor had tried to balk, though the Elder Brother had known he would eventually give in.

It had not taken much convincing.

"That woman means well, but there is something about this situation that I do not trust," the Elder Brother had said. Sandor had listened in silence, his face twisted in anger beneath his cowl. "You told me much and more of your history with this girl; if anyone can find her - if anyone _should_ find her - it must be you."

Though it had taken quite a bit of effort at the time, Sandor had shaken his head. _No_. Though that brute of a woman had seemed a bumbling fool, there were plenty of things he could do to Sansa Stark that Brienne of Tarth would not. _Could not_, he thought, barely able to stifle his snort.

"Think on it," the Elder Brother had ordered. Sandor had shaken his head a _second_ time. _If I think about it I will go_, he knew.

Sandor had thrown himself into his grave digging that day and the next. He visited Stranger in the stables and rather than sit alone as he had been wont to do, he placed himself amongst chatting brothers - those who were allowed to speak - at meal times.

But none of it worked. He saw her in his mind's eye when he awoke and when he lay down to sleep. He dreamed about her, Sansa Stark, his little bird. And the things he did were mindless anyway and left plenty of time for him to wonder where she was, if she was alive, whether she was safe...

And one afternoon he returned to his tiny room to find a set of plain roughspun clothes and a dark hooded cloak laid out on his pallet. He had sensed the Elder Brother's presence before the man cleared his throat, and when Sandor turned to face the Elder Brother there was a small, sad smile on the other man's face. "You will go," the Elder Brother said, and it was in part a statement and in part an order.

And Sandor had nodded.

* * *

><p>The Vale...Sandor had come here with slim hopes, but in knowing the details of that ugly wench of a knight's quest and after making inquiries wherever he'd dared it had seemed mighty convenient that Littlefinger's supposed bastard daughter had come out of hiding mere weeks after Joffrey's death. Word had it that she was a pretty little girl with mouse-colored hair, about four-and-ten or so - too close to Sansa's age for him to pass up a look. He had no idea how he would manage to catch even a glimpse of this girl but he'd come anyway, riding Stranger as far up the pass as he'd dared, tethering the stallion off the road and doing so loosely, so that Stranger could break away if necessary. Sandor then pulled himself up and along the mountainside and arrived at the Bloody Gate in the dark of night, wanting to breathe easy but knowing he still had far to go.<p>

It was true that the Mountains of the Moon were not quite so dangerous nowadays, but still it had been a harrowing journey. He slept little, lit no fires, and thankfully encountered no mountain clans. Some had never returned after the Battle of the Blackwater, he'd heard, and then Littlefinger had burned down vast swaths of the forest with the intent of driving even more of them out. _And there is always the chance that he bought some of the less fierce ones_, Sandor thought. Littlefinger had had eyes and ears all over King's Landing and the Red Keep; it would make sense for him to employ the same tactics as Lord Protector of the Vale.

Sandor watched the change of the guards at dawn and saw Littlefinger and his retinue ride away mid-morning. He waited until they were out of sight before slipping silently toward the watchtowers and bridge, keeping to the deep shadows that the morning sun caused. He waited for someone to see him, to shout the infamous words, "Who would pass the bloody gate?" - but he encountered only one guard and was able to slit the man's throat silently and tuck the body away against the cliff, hoping against hope that it would not be found anytime soon. He moved quickly through the pass, the sun nearly blinding him when he burst into the valley. _It must be mid-morning already, seven buggering hells _how_ is this going to work..._Sandor pushed himself, keeping to the trees and wishing he'd been able to ride Stranger right through the pass, the Bloody Gate, and up to the Gates of the Moon. At this rate he'd be lucky to make it to the food of the Giant's Lance by the end of the day...

Though the idea of luck was something he'd never understood, when he saw the young woman riding the pony he suddenly felt a bit more inclined to believe in it. She was in her own world, this girl, and while she did have that mousy brown hair others spoke of, when the sun glinted off her curls there was red there, too. And something in the set of her shoulders...something defiant yet broken at the same time...it raised his rancor and then he knew it was her.

Sansa.

His little bird.

The fainting was a bit much, but while she was unconscious he gripped her hand and wondered if he had _actually_ frightened her to death...and he felt something like concern. When she finally stirred he leapt away, releasing her small, soft hand and putting as much distance as possible between them before she opened her eyes. He didn't want to repeat what she'd said during her spell; she made him do it. Her babbling about the long-dead butcher's boy was another thing entirely, and he was relieved when she said nothing more on the subject and merely asked him why he was there. When he told her that he had come for her he expected her to be frightened, to run, to scream - but she was and did nothing of the sort.

"How are we to go? _Where_ are we to go?" she asked eagerly. Then, "I'll need to retrieve my things..."

He snorted derisively. "Stupid bird! There's no time for that. You have a pony and my horse is just outside the entrance. If it's as easy to get out as it was to get in, we have nothing to worry about. As for the where...I'm still thinking on that."

Sansa's face registered several emotions - first shock, then annoyance, reluctance, and something that was likely revulsion - and finally she stood and approached him. "You promised once that you would keep me safe. On your honor, is that still true?"

Sandor spat at the ground. "I have no honor."

When she cupped his burned cheek in her hand and turned his face back to hers, he tensed and wasn't sure if he was angry or simply surprised. "Yes you do," she said softly, and in her eyes there was a deep understanding that he'd never seen before. At least not in the eyes of those who looked upon _him_.

He shoved Sansa away from him; she stumbled and barely kept herself from falling. "Don't," he growled, but he didn't know what he was telling her not to do. Her lower lip trembled for a moment, but she took a shuddering breath and didn't spill a tear.

"What if I refuse to go with you?" she asked, and even as he laughed at her he knew she didn't really mean it.

"No one refuses me," he stated as he strode toward her, picked her up in his arms and deposited her on the back of the pony.

"But...my _things_..." she protested weakly as he took the reins and began to lead her toward the valley entrance. Sandor couldn't look at her; he merely shook his head and forged on. He'd brought bedrolls, food and water for two, along with a few peasant woman dresses - one of which she'd need to don right away. If she was dressed as he was, if they could avoid the mountain clans, perhaps the Riverlands would hold some semblance of safety for them.

Sansa was silent after that, until they reached the Bloody Gate. It was nearly pitch dark now, and one of the two towers was blazing with light. Then men inside were raucous and not one of them was actually doing the job of keeping watch. _How far the Vale has fallen under it's new Lord "Protector"_, Sandor snorted to himself. He'd stopped and sliced up a chunk of his cape, wrapping it around the pony's hooves to soften their sound on the hard-packed earth, and so they rode silently under the covered bridge. He did not breathe easy until the watchtowers were far behind and out of sight, but gods, this was far easier than he could have possibly hoped!

Stranger had pulled himself loose from his stake but was grazing nearby. The destrier raised his head and nickered a greeting to Sandor, though the horse did nip meanly at Sansa's pony in order to establish dominance. Sandor mounted Stranger but refused to relinquish the pony's reins to Sansa. _Best keep her close_.

They rode as the moon climbed high in the sky, and then they rode some more - he knew that they needed to put as much ground as possible between themselves and the Vale. He avoided the main paths and took a route that would lead them away from Littlefinger's last known whereabouts. At some point during the night Sansa began snuffling and he knew that she was crying, but he ignored her. They must get through the night; they would find somewhere to hole up and sleep once dawn came. "Hush, little bird," he finally grunted, when he could no longer stand the sound of her tears. She sucked in a breath and he thought he heard her whisper, "But I'm _tired_" - still, she stopped crying, at least.

At long last, dim light began to filter through the burnt branches of the remaining trees. For a brief moment Sandor considered continuing on, but when he looked back and saw that Sansa's chin was to her chest and her head lolling with every step the pony took he knew they'd have to stop, or risk her falling. It was a voice from the past that he heard in his head, then: _Do not injure your little bird, dog. _He pulled Stranger and the pony to a halt and busied himself with the bedrolls, food, and wine, forcing her to dismount on her own. He knew he wouldn't be able to put his hands around her tiny perfect waist and actually let go once she was on the ground.

He did watch her, though, as she petted the pony and wandered off to piss, leaving Sandor chuckling at her blushing and mumbling about "making water". He could see that she had changed, but how much? Was she a little bird at all anymore, or had the Imp and Littlefinger fucked the innocence out of her?

Sandor clenched his fists in fury. He hadn't taken her when he had the chance and now both of those men - a hideous dwarf and a pitiful coin counter - had taken her first.

By the time Sansa returned he had laid the bedrolls out next to each other with the food and wine on top of them. Sandor saw her stop, eye the close proximity of the blankets, then start forward again with renewed determination in her stride. He grimaced.

"It'll be cold today, little bird, and dangers lurk even though many of the mountain clans are gone. Best we keep close." All of what he said was true, but of course he also wanted to test his boundaries.

"No fire?" she asked meekly as she sat on one of the rolls and picked up a piece of bread. He rolled his eyes.

"Do you want to be found by Littlefinger's men already? Or by some wandering oaf who didn't take the Lord Protector's _hint_ to get the seven hells out of his mountains? I didn't force you to come with me, you know." As he said as much, he realized it was true. She _could_ have fought, could have screamed...yet she had come with him almost _willingly_. This both annoyed him and confused him - was she playing a game? Or was she really just that stupid?

"No," she replied, a fierce look on her face. "I want to be with _you_."

Sandor couldn't stop himself - he strode over to Sansa and grabbed her arm, pulling her up off the bedroll. "_Why? _In the names of gods old and new, why would you _want_ to be with me? Do you have any idea what I could _do_ to you, girl? There is no one here to protect you, no gallant knight to keep me from slitting your throat and bringing your body back to Cersei. To keep me from throwing you down and raping you like the dog I am!"

She had that look in her eyes again, but the understanding was veiled with frustration this time. "You wouldn't," she spat. "You wouldn't kill me, and you certainly couldn't _rape _me. If you were ever going to do it, you would have done it at King's Landing that night. There was battle and fire all around, you were drunk and I was alone, unprotected. You could have taken me then and no one would have heard my screams, had I bothered to utter any at all!" She shook his hand off her arm and backed away just a step. "I've dreamt about you for months. I dreamt that you kissed me that night, dreamt it so often that I thought it was true..."

There were tears in her eyes now, but he neither knew nor cared why. He "couldn't" rape her? She may not have screamed, had he taken her that night - as he'd thought about doing?

She dreamed about him...about him _kissing_ her?

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched, and he took a step toward her. She backed up a step in return but this time he wouldn't have it. "Come _here_," he demanded, taking her in his arms and pulling her into him. Just the feel of her against his chest made him hard, but he took a moment to finger a loose curl that hung over her face before he bent and pressed his lips to hers. He still expected her to struggle, but instead she melted into his arms. She didn't even resist when he pushed his tongue into her mouth and suddenly he realized _She's kissing me back._

It was all too much, but he'd been given the name the Hound for a reason, hadn't he? And she was no maid, the thrice-be-damned Lannisters and sniveling Littlefinger had seen to that. There was no stopping now - not as he reached his arms around and unlaced her dress, yanking it off her shoulders to bare her perfect little teats. Sansa gasped as he pinched her left nipple, but even his calloused fingers could feel that it had gone hard at his touch. He picked her up, her dress crumpling to the ground, and fairly threw her onto the bedrolls as he tore at his jerkin and breeches, willing them to be gone before she could scream "No!" or fight him off. But she just lay there on the ground, pale and shivering and attempting to cover her breasts and cunt with her hands.

And then he was on top of her, his hand grasping roughly at her hair and his mouth running down the length of her body - her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, her soft flat stomach. He kissed the inside of her thigh and her legs opened automatically; when he put his fingers into her she was already sopping wet and he didn't understand and he did understand and then his mouth was on hers again as he entered her. She made a sound, something like a yelp of pain, and he thought with a wicked grin that he must be much larger than those who'd taken her before - but still he didn't stop. He moved slowly until he felt her begin to relax underneath him, and then he wrapped his hands around her waist and rolled over onto his back, taking her chin in his hand. "Ride me like you would a horse," he commanded. Sansa nodded, but he kept his hand where it was, forcing her to look at him as she moved herself forward and back, forward and back.

When he released her chin, though, she merely tipped her head back and planted her hands more firmly on his chest, moving faster, harder, until she suddenly gasped and looked down at him again with feverish, lust-filled eyes. "Sandor," she moaned, and the only response he could muster was "Gods!" as they came together, him slamming into her as she spasmed once, twice, thrice and then shuddered as she draped herself on top of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANSA**

She had never known anything like it.

When he'd first kissed her it was if she was dreaming again, only she wasn't and it was so much more wonderful than she'd ever imagined. She shouldn't have let it go so far, but while her mind was saying _no, he musn't, he musn't, I need my maidenhood intact _her body was responding in ways she didn't understand. Something was happening as he kissed her, touched her, _caressed_ her...similar to the visions she'd had when she fainted, but these were more angry flashes of what he was doing and seeing _now_, and she found herself trying to block them, forcing her eyes to remain open even as she wanted to clench them shut. She was concerned but not afraid, even when he pushed into her and she knew that from this point on there would be no turning back.

It had hurt at first, but he'd been gentle enough that soon it became enjoyable - and then he had sat her on top of him and told her to ride, and though the mere idea of doing so made her face flush red and her heart pound with embarrassment she obeyed, and it was as if a firebomb was building inside of her until she had to look at him again and then his name was on her lips and she released it into the air and there was an explosion between her legs that took her breath away. She lay on top of him for many minutes, until he suddenly started and pushed her away.

"Sansa? _Sansa_!"

"Wh...what?" she mumbled, unable to stop smiling.

"This is your moon blood, tell me this is your moon blood..." the Hound - no, Sandor - snapped at her. She looked, and realized that there was indeed blood on the bedrolls beneath and on her thighs. And on his manhood, as well, but that was no matter when she felt so amazing.

"I...well...no," she whispered, looking away from him. He grabbed her chin again and she felt a fluttering in her stomach that sunk down into her woman's place when he did.

"You were a _maid_?" he said disbelievingly. She could see that he was angry and she didn't understand.

"I...are you...are you upset with me?" she asked, her voice small and pathetic. Sandor moved away from her, and even in her concern she had to admire him. Burned face and scarred limbs aside, he was a fine specimen - broad shoulders, rock-hard chest, tapering into a waist with not an ounce of fat upon it and strong horseman's legs. She reached for him, running her fingertips over the tough skin on his arm. He jerked away.

"You should have told me."

Sansa was annoyed, now. "Oh really? And when would I have said as much? You didn't ask and I'm not of the habit to run around telling every man I see that I'm still a maid," she spat.

"You've been _married_, for gods' sake!" he growled. "And with Littlefinger...I saw the way he looked at you when we were at court together, I know he's acted more than a father to you..."

She scooted over and sat in front of him, pressing her breasts against his knees, which were pulled to his chest, and pretending not to notice that he had grown hard again. "Tyrion was kind. He knew I didn't want to be with him, and he refused to force me. And Petyr...he wanted to, I'll grant you that, but my maidenhood was the only hope he had of getting my marriage to Tyrion annulled so that he could give me over to Harry the Heir. And I don't want Harry either, any more than I want Petyr or the Imp. It's you I've wanted, Sandor, you who I dreamt of, you who can keep me safe." As she spoke she eased his legs apart with her hands and straddled him again, guiding him inside of her until they both shuddered in need. "And now you're going to take me again before we sleep," she leaned down and whispered in his ear. _Something of the bastard-brave Alayne resides in you after all_, she thought with a smile.

This time he spun her around and took her as a dog takes a bitch. Sansa almost laughed when she thought _well isn't that proper_, but once he was in her and his hands were cupping her breasts she couldn't think at all. This time he wasn't gentle and she wasn't quiet, but when it was over he lay down and she draped herself over him again, feeling nothing short of satiated. She listened to Sandor breathe for quite some time and thought him asleep; she was surprised when he said "You look at me now."

"Yes," she whispered, ashamed at the reminder that at one time she hadn't been able to do so.

"What is different?" he asked. "I am still burned. I am no Loras Tyrell or Harry the Heir...and you are still a beautiful little bird."

She smiled when he called her beautiful, and used the tip of her pointer finger to trace a scar on his chest. "Everything is different," she admitted. "How many lords and knights I've met, and none of them ever as kind to me as you. If they were polite or flirtatious it was for the wrong reasons. You were never polite or fliratious, but you wanted me and I could tell. You wanted me for me, even if you hated my meekness and my manners."

"Truth be told, I wanted you for this," he said, touching her face. "And that innocence in you that I both admired and loathed...I wanted it for my own. And now I've had it. What makes you think I won't leave you to dogs worse than myself?"

"Because you won't. You hate that it's there, but there _is_honor in you, Sandor."

He chuckled, actually _chuckled_, then. "It is very difficult for me to let you believe something that isn't true."

She looked away from him, resting her head back on his chest. "I fell in love with you in my dreams," she murmured, "had you not any honor, I wouldn't feel this way."

Sandor squeezed her tight for a moment. "You are a silly little bird, so yes, you probably would fall in love with the likes of me. You should be more careful with your feelings, girl."

Sansa lay very still for a long moment, unsure of his meaning. In the end she had to conclude that he meant exactly what he said, and she closed her eyes against the tears that welled up, wondering if she'd really been so very wrong about him.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

His body tensed when he felt Sansa's tears on his chest. She was more of a fool than he'd first thought, speaking of honor and_ love_. Of course she didn't actually love him - she thought he'd saved her like the knights in those songs she loved. She'd said it herself - she thought he would keep her _safe_. Showed how much she knew - they hadn't even been together for one day and he'd basically raped her, and taken her maidenhead to boot.

_No_, he thought. _Not rape_. She'd been willing enough, and he assumed it was because she was used to it. The truth was even worse - she'd been willing because she thought there was something between them.

Sandor lay as still as he possibly could until he was sure that Sansa had cried herself to sleep. He then eased out from under her and took stock of the situation - but not before raking his eyes over his little bird. She had grown much more womanly since he'd last seen her; whereas before he'd looked at her and wondered _what_ _if,_ now he could look at her and see soft curves that he'd caressed, thick curls that he had run his hands through. She was his, his in ways he'd never dreamed, only suddenly he had no idea what to do with her.

He finally pulled a blanket over Sansa's sleeping body and dressed himself, determined to be ready for anything. He lay his sword next to his bedroll and fell asleep with his back to the girl, as far from her as he could possibly get.

***

It was nearly dark when Sandor jerked awake many hours later. He wasn't sure exactly what had woken him so suddenly - as if a rooster had crowed the coming of dawn - but it was about time for them to move on, anyway. He realized that at some point during his sleep he had rolled onto his back, and Sansa was once again nestled in the crook of his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance - at her or himself, what did it matter? - and tried to ease out from under her again. But as soon as he moved, so did she, draping an arm across his chest and curling a leg over him. He could feel the warmth of her cunt pressing into his hip; one of her teats was against him as well and the nipple was hard in the chill evening air. She was trembling slightly - shivering, he realized - and he felt himself grow hard inside his breeches.

The gods only knew when he would have this chance again, so he rolled Sansa onto her back and unlaced his pants. She woke then, blinking the sleep from her eyes and smiling sweetly up at him as he lowered himself on top of her.

"Is this a dream?" she asked.

"If you want it to be, little bird," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Before she could respond he wrapped his hand around the back of her head and kissed her, entering her without any sort of fumbling, as if they fit, as if they belonged together. She sighed into his mouth and he lost all sense of himself, forgot that maybe he should be gentle with this little bird of his as he took her for the third time, now. Sansa clutched at his back, clung to him like a burr, and when her cunt contracted around his manhood there was only a brief moment when he realized _I should not spill my seed in her_ before he did, grunting like a rutting boar as she thrashed for a moment, digging her nails into his back and breathing, "Sandor, Sandor, oh, Sandor..."

_Why is she saying my name?_ he couldn't help but think as he placed a gentle kiss on the corner of her lips and forced himself away from her. "You should dress," he said gruffly as he turned his back on Sansa. He pulled some peasant clothing from his pack, but wouldn't allow himself to look at her as she stood and took it from him. He could hear the disappointment in her voice when she asked, "In _this_?"

"How would it look if a finely-dressed lady was seen with the likes of me?" he snapped, still refusing to face her. He could see her standing in his peripheral vision though, pale and shivering. "Now get dressed before you get sick."

Ever the obedient little bird, Sansa did as she was told. Soon they were mounted and on their way, picking carefully through the burned forest. Thankfully the moon was full and bright tonight with too little foliage left to block its light, or the going would have been much more dangerous. At times he could hear Sansa singing softly in his wake, but for most of the night she was silent and the one time he looked back to check on her she was staring into the distance, her face white and pinched, crying silently. He cursed to himself and spurred Stranger on, wondering how it had come to this and whether he could ever fix it.

Sandor had never stopped thinking of Sansa. While she was apparently dreaming of him kissing her, he had been dreaming of her frightened face that night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay. When he'd had her sister Arya it had been even worse; the two couldn't have been more different from each other and he certainly didn't see Arya the way he saw Sansa, but there was still something _there_. In feverish pain he had cried in front of Arya as he had cried in front of her elder sister, but with Sansa he had cried because of fear. With Arya he had cried because of remorse. True, he had said things he shouldn't have said about fucking Sansa bloody and killing her, but he'd thought he was dying and he had needed Arya to either off him herself or leave him to it. She'd left, of course, and he'd died neither by her hand nor from his wounds, and ever since he'd known that he needed to find Sansa Stark if it was the last thing he did.

Only now he had taken her from a perfectly safe - if not perfectly _perfect_ - life, he was dragging her through dangerous country, and he couldn't keep his hands off her. But starting now, he _would_ keep his hands off her, he decided. He _had_ to.

When they made camp in the morning, and the morning after that and the one after _that_, Sandor set the bedrolls a few feet apart and placed his sword in between them. On the first morning, Sansa looked as if she might say something, but she didn't. On the second morning, she merely looked annoyed. By the third morning she had grown cool and distant and he told himself that it was all for the best.

Unfortunately, they were running out of food and it was getting colder and colder during the day - at night the chill was nearly impossible to bear. They had been on the road for a sennight when they chanced upon a riverside inn that seemed far enough from the Vale and the Kingsroad to be safe. Dawn was just breaking and Sandor hoped that if they broke their fast and slept the day away in the inn, dined there in the evening, then paid for the night whilst slipping away while others were sleeping, it would throw anyone who came calling off their trail for at least a day.

"We're stopping here," he announced. "For today at least, you're my wife. Keep your mouth shut, they'll know you're high born if you talk and no high-born lady would wed a man like me. I'll take care of things." Sansa was cowed by his harshness, but he could see relief wash over her - probably at the thought of sleeping in a bed. Unfortunately, the only way this would work was if they truly _played_ at man and wife.

Which meant only one room and only one bed.

When they entered the main room the fire in the hearth was mere embers, having not been stoked since the night before. A bell tinkled when Sandor opened the door, though, and within moments a large woman with a wary look on her face sauntered in from a back room. "Odd time to be arriving at an inn," she said by way of greeting.

"My wife and I are returning south - my father died suddenly. We are tired and hungry and would like to break our fast and have a room. With a bath in it, if possible." Sandor was brusque, but it didn't stop the innkeep from peering around him at Sansa. The look on the woman's face plainly said that she didn't think Sansa was his wife at all. Though it was only obvious why she would think this, he tensed in anger when she stated - in a disbelieving tone - "Your wife."

Sandor placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but before he could respond the little bird stepped up beside him and laid her hand on his arm. "For sure, m'lady, this is my lord husband of two years. He is a smith, one of the best in fact, but some years ago he had a terrible accident..." Sansa's soft hand reached up and cupped his scarred cheek, and when he looked down at her he saw that she was gazing at him with sad, loving eyes. He stared back at her for a long moment, until the innkeep finally cleared her throat and said "Very well. Give me the coin and the room at the top of the stairs is yours. But first, your meal."

He started, drawing his eyes away from Sansa's. "Right," he said as he pulled some monies from his bag. He was flustered and this annoyed him. Who was this girl - no, this _woman_? So different from his frightened little bird, staring at him and touching him and calling him her lord husband with no hesitation. To be sure, her cheeks were flushed red and she had been trembling when she lied to the woman, but such a convincing act it was...

Had she learned a bit too much from Littlefinger, he wondered?

The food was fresh hot bread served with honey-sweetened porridge and water. "We have ale, strongwine and water," the woman had allowed - but Sandor saw Sansa cringe at the mention of the ale and strongwine. As much as he wanted - no, _needed_ - a drink, he couldn't bring himself to order one. They ate in silence and when they were done, gathered their things and made for their room. When they entered there was a hot fire burning in the hearth, and next to it a large steaming tub of water. The inn must have been empty, or nearly so, because his small amount of coin had apparently bought them the finest room in the place - there was a real bed, not just a straw pallet on the floor, and even a large looking glass leaning against a far wall.

Sandor busied himself with his things as Sansa stood in front of the looking glass and sighed. It was a sad, resigned sound, and when he turned to her she was fumbling with the laces on the back of her dress and he couldn't stop himself. In two long strides he was across the room, his hands on the strings. "Here," he said gruffly as he helped her untie them. His eyes landed on the soft dip between her neck and her shoulder blade and he caressed it gently, feeling Sansa suck in her breath. And in that moment the self control he had built up throughout the past few days withered to nothing, and he gently pushed the dress off her shoulders. It crumpled in a heap on the floor, dragging her smallclothes with it, and she was standing naked in front of him, watching him stare at her reflection in the mirror, a small smile playing across her lips.

He spun her around to face him, angry with himself, angry with her, but still unable to stop himself from drawing her into him and kissing her.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANSA**

She'd known he couldn't ignore her forever.

If there was one thing Cersei and Littlefinger had taught her, it was that a pretty face and a willing cunt could get a woman just about anything. She'd had trouble biding her time, for sure, now that she'd had him and realized how much better he was outside of her dreams, but sometimes - even though she knew that he meant her no harm - he still frightened her a bit. When he'd approached to help her with the laces she almost cringed at the sight of her naked body in the looking glass, but stopped herself and instead watched the reflection of his face, watched it until she caught his eye and he spun her around and kissed her.

"You're a wanton little fool," he rasped.

"I'm not a fool," she stated belligerently. He kissed her again, and she reached to untie his breeches, though she had never undressed a man before and fumbled at it for quite a few moments before finally pulling them loose. Suddenly Sandor grabbed hold of her hands and pulled away from her.

"The bath will get cold," he insisted. Sansa smiled as she gently pulled her hands from his to work his jerkin.

"No it won't - because you're going to get in it," she said as she continued to help him undress.

Sandor scoffed at her. "I'll barely fit in that basin." But she finally had his upper body bare of clothing and forced him to step out of his breeches. He grumbled as he lowered himself into the hot water, but the moment it washed over him his eyes drifted closed, and Sansa knew the bath must feel wonderful after so many nights of riding. Unfortunately she couldn't let him relax in the basin by himself forever, so she stepped in and folded herself on top of him. He glared at her. "Neither of us will ever get clean this way."

"Who said I wanted to be clean? You're the one who ordered the bath," she responded, smiling a wicked smile as she cupped the water over his head and watched it run through his hair, over his face and down his chest. He was already hard and just his kisses had made her desire him, so Sansa slipped her legs around his thighs and guided him inside of her. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Don't you think we should make that woman understand why we are married?" The water began to splash over the edges of the basin as she moved over him, and finally, _finally _Sandor grasped her hips in his hands and held her to him as he leaned forward to take her right breast in his mouth. When his teeth took hold of her nipple and he flicked his tongue against its aroused tip, Sansa gasped and clung to his neck as she came, wondering for just a moment about him - until he thrust upwards and fell back with a great spasm and a guttural growl that seemed to shake her to her very core.

Afterward, Sansa washed her false husband with her own hands, gently caressing his many scars and thinking, _He is mine, _mine_, and I can't bear to lose him again_. He didn't believe that she loved him; or maybe he simply didn't _want_ her to love him - but she did, she _did_, and at the very least he desired her. She knew enough of relationships to know that many began with desire as a base.

_Yes, began_, some part of her insisted. _But not necessarily succeeded._

Yet this was something else entirely, this thing between herself and Sandor - she wanted to believe that, _had_ to believe it. How else could these visions be explained? Again when she had made contact with him she'd had to fight against the visions of his memories and actions, which was the only way she could describe the things that flashed through her mind when he pressed his hands to her body. It was if these recollections _wanted_ to be seen, she knew this somehow, yet she was not sure she was _ready_ to see them.

Sansa shook off her feelings of doubt, climbed out of the basin and wrapped herself in a blanket to keep the shivering at bay. Sandor stood as well and stepped toward her, pulling her arms apart and allowing her to wrap him up with her. She lay her head on his damp chest and he seemed to forget himself for a moment as he gently stroked the back of her head - but it was only a moment and he very suddenly cleared his throat and said, "We'd best get some sleep." Still, when she crawled under the rough coverlets on the bed he followed her lead, and other than heaving a great sigh - that had to be borne of annoyance - when she nestled against him, he allowed her that small comfort and she soon fell asleep.

For once, Sansa woke first - probably because they had turned during the night and Sandor's body was cupping hers, his manhood hard against the back of her upper thigh. He was such a large man; being wrapped up in him like this made her feel so _safe_. He'd always made her feel safe. He wasn't her lord husband in word, but he was in _deed_...and she meant to keep it that way. She scooted away from Sandor and eased him gently onto his back; he awoke, but she merely smiled at him and ducked beneath the blankets to take him in her mouth the way Randa had told her about. Sandor shuddered as she did so, but after a moment he tensed and she worried that he would make her stop - so she grasped his hips and took as much of him into her mouth as she dared try to fit.

And then his hands were in her hair, and for some time he was holding her over his manhood - until suddenly he grasped a handful of curls in his fist and yanked her away from him, almost painfully, the coverlets spilling down her back. Sansa bit back a yelp and asked, "I'm sorry, did I...do something wrong?"

"No, little bird," he said, almost kindly. His eyes shone with something she did not recognize as he grasped her waist, moving her off of him, onto her back, then looming over her. "You are not a whore bound to serve me, and that act gives pleasure only to myself," Sandor finished, and he entered her with as much ease as that first evening in the forest - only this time she was fully awake, she knew she wasn't dreaming, and she couldn't help herself.

"I don't care," she admitted. "I love you."

Sansa's eyes closed automatically; she was afraid that he would mock her the way he had that morning in the forest. Instead she felt Sandor lower himself until their bodies were pressed together, his arms braced on either side of her, and when he rolled his hips up she sighed and met him.

Suddenly she was no longer in the dark but seeing herself, eyes closed and lips parted just slightly, face flushed red with desire. And then suddenly it was not the present but the past and she was seeing a younger, softer Sansa whose hair was still auburn, dressed in her finery and ascending the steps to Joffrey's box at his long-ago name day tourney. She heard Sandor murmur her name as he ran his lips down her neck, and then she was seeing the back of her neck with the tourney field blurry beyond her, watching the wisps of her hair at the back of her neck flutter in the wind...

She had to open her eyes then, had to open them against the aching want that she'd felt in him. Part of Sansa wanted to tell him, _"Come back to me"_ - she wanted him to be here and now, with _her_, not there and then with that silly little bird. She clutched at his shoulders, digging her fingernails into his slick skin and instead just saying his name, "Sandor", because_ that_ at least she knew he would like. He let out a breath that contained the undertones of a growl and she arched up into him, feeling the coarse hairs on his chest tickle her aroused nipples. She fought against closing her eyes and instead reached for his face, turning it up to hers so that she could look directly into his eyes. They were _gleaming_, that was the only word for it, and her mouth fell open in ecstasy as he stared at her, looked into her, looked _through_ her.

Sandor screwed his eyes shut and gasped, "Fuck, little bird, I can't - ", his thrusts harder, faster, more powerful now as he cupped a hand beneath her arse and held her against him. Sansa felt a beautiful sort of pressure somewhere below her stomach, heard herself make a low keening sound as a deep feeling of intense pleasure rolled over her and through her. She reached up and curled her palms over the tops of Sandor's shoulders, pushing down on him as she moaned in her ecstasy, her body crushed against his as she felt him pulse inside of her and grow suddenly stiff and still, releasing a single long, shuddering breath before gently releasing his hold on her. Sansa fell back onto the bed, sweaty and sore and weak but above all intoxicated with the blissful feelings she had just experienced.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

_What am I going to _do_ with her? _

It was a question he simply could not stop thinking about. So long as she was willing to be with him like this, he could not deny her. He knew that now. Sandor thought then of the Elder Brother, but was at least able to push _that_ person from his mind. The more pressing matter, he supposed, was _where_ they would go. The Freys held Riverrun, the Boltons, Winterfell. Her Aunt Lysa was dead and her uncle the Blackfish missing; Edmure Tully was in the custody of the Lannisters. Their best bet was to find a port, to take a ship to one of the free cities, but would the little bird agree to such a thing?

"Sandor?" she whispered, interrupting his reverie.

"Mmm?"

"What are you thinking of?"

Sandor sighed, then propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, all porcelain skin and dull brown locks. _So wrong for her_, he thought, pinching a curl between his fingers and frowning in distaste. "I'm thinking on where we should go, little bird," he admitted. "It seems that there are very few safe places for you. We...we may have to go across the Narrow Sea."

Sansa looked away from him, but before she did so he swore he saw her eyes well with tears. _What does she expect from you, a miracle?_ he thought with a grimace.

"And if we are caught?" she asked, a sad, dull sort of finality to her tone.

"Then I will protect you, little bird," the words left his mouth before he knew what he was saying.

"From Littlefinger? From Tyrion? From Cersei, the Freys, from _all_ of them?"

"Of course," he grunted, though he wondered what in Westeros she was trying to say. For several long moments she was silent, leaving him to wonder if she was crying, or if she'd somehow fallen back to sleep. When she did speak, he could not hide his shock or his rancor at how forward she was being. How forward - and how _stupid_.

"I will go to the free cities with you, go wherever we can find safe passage, but only under one condition - I go as your wife. Your _true_ wife. You can be a blacksmith as we told the innkeep, but you will need to pick a name. I will be a bastard still, though this time of the Riverlands...a Rivers." She paused thoughtfully. "Nora. Nora Rivers. We can visit the sept here in this village and then make for Maidenpool."

Sandor couldn't feel it, but he was sure that the burnt corner of his lip was twitching in frustration. "You are already wed, little bird, and even if you weren't you could not marry the likes of me."

"No. Sansa Stark was _wed_, Sandor Clegane. Against her will, I might add. If I can ever be that girl again, really and truly, it will be a long time from now and as Lady of Winterfell I will make my own choices. For now I am a bastard, however, and if we leave a trail of witnesses who think us merely a married peasant couple we will almost be safer than if we leave no trail at all."

There were so many holes in her logic that Sandor almost wanted to laugh...yet parts of what she said rang true. Should Petyr Baelish come calling and hear of a large man with a scarred face escorting a pretty young girl through the village, it would be only a matter of time before he tracked them...well, just about anywhere. Littlefinger seemed to have spun more webs than that damn spider of a eunuch back in King's Landing; how else could he have removed Sansa Stark from the Red Keep without leaving a trail? But maybe, _maybe_, if they could truly pass as newly wed peasants...

_You are thinking with the wrong parts of yourself, man_, Sandor mused. _Wherever this little idea of hers came from, liking it doesn't make it right_. Yet even knowing this did not keep him from saying, "As you wish, little bird." Her nose wrinkled and he knew that she heard the resignation in his voice and did not care for it, but what was he to do? Septon or not, consummation or not, this marriage of theirs - should it really happen - would be a queer sort of lie. And he wanted to be sure she understood as much.

"Shall we go, then?" she said, her smile bright but obviously somewhat forced.

"Go?"

"To the sept."

"Now?"

"If we are to dine tonight and leave while the village sleeps..."

_She has you there,_he realized, yet he could not bring himself to give in so completely. Just the thought of running off to a sept with Sansa Stark left a sort of sick feeling in his stomach that he could not quite place. "Little bird, truly, I...I can't do this."

"Yes, you _can_. You must. _We_ must." Sansa was beginning to sound like a petulant child; Sandor wondered how she could go from a wanton woman to a logical lady to a griping girl so very quickly.

"There is no 'must', little bird," he snarled.

"You said 'as I wish'. And this is what I wish. What I _want_." As Sansa spoke, she traced her fingers over the scars on his face, over the ruined corner of his lips, down his neck to the gnarled flesh of the arm that had been scorched by Beric Dondarrion's flaming sword. For a moment Sansa closed her eyes, the tips of her fingers settled between the ridges of his damaged skin, but almost immediately she gasped and opened them and when she looked at him it was as if she could see _everything_. She was trembling, but Sandor didn't know what to do or to say. Awkwardly he reached for her, mimicking the movements she'd made a moment ago, tracing his calloused fingers over her perfect porcelain skin. _Not porcelain now,_ he thought, almost sadly. _Ice_. _Ice that goes deep enough to not shatter._

"You want this, little bird? You want to hie off to a sept and marry a man over twice your age, a scarred ugly brute of a man who could never be worthy of you? I am no knight, nor will I ever be one. If my brother is really and truly dead, I have a small holdfast that sits practically in the Lannister's pocket, and something tells me that even if we _could_ go there, you wouldn't _want _to do so. I can give you protection, but I need not be your husband to do that. I would sooner be your sworn shield and see you wed to a man who belongs in those songs you once loved."

Even as he said these words, Sandor knew that he was lying about that last bit. He would never _want _to see her wed; no one could possibly deserve a creature of such perfection, equal parts Mother, Warrior, and Maiden that she was.

For a moment it looked as if Sansa would close her eyes again, but then she sighed and seemed to stop herself from doing so. Instead she twined her fingers through his and focused on their hands. "Didn't I say this is what I want? You _saved_ me, Sandor. I do not care about your age, and your scars only prove how strong and brave you have been...to withstand each and every one of them and to still be _alive_. I have been 'hied off' to plenty of places...sometimes by my own choice, and we know how well that turned out. Not only do I want this, I _choose_ it. Can you understand that...or can you at least _try _to understand it?"

Sandor grunted and rolled onto his back, gently pulling his hand from her grip. How had he gone from taking her maidenhead to doing his best to avoid her to telling an innkeep tales of her being his wife? Could he have known that the little bird would latch on to that story, would try to take it so far? He heaved a sigh and repeated his earlier statement, "As you wish, little bird." He didn't see that he had much other choice. _Buggering fool, you don't _want_ any other choice. _Sansa snuggled into the crook of his arm, forcing him to embrace her.

"Do you love me yet?" she asked, but Sandor could not find the words to answer her.

* * *

><p>The innkeep was stoking a fire in the common room when Sandor and Sansa made their way down to it not an hour later. "Supper's stew and bread," the woman announced, dusting her sooty hands on her already filthy apron.<p>

"We'll be back for food soon. Can you tell us where the nearest sept is?" Sandor asked, trying to keep himself from shuffling his feet. He felt awkward and uncomfortable; this lie was not coming to him as easily as he would have hoped.

"The sept?" the woman replied, giving them a look that was far too curious for his liking.

"We must needs say a prayer for my dear departed goodfather." Sansa's lie appeared to come easily, and she flashed a winning smile at the innkeep to punctuate it.

"Of course. Half a league or so toward the river."

"A septon will be present?" the little bird chirped.

The innkeep's questioning look returned. "I would say so."

"Our thanks," Sandor grunted, taking Sansa by the hand and fairly dragging her outside. It was late in the afternoon, perhaps even early in the evening, and he eyed the sun warily. It was already low in the sky and they would be smart to return to the inn as early as possible to avoid the dinner crowd - if there was one - and be hidden away in their room to await their late-night exit. "We'll take Stranger," he declared. Sansa looked up at him, something like fright in her eyes, but before she could argue he shrugged and said, "It's the quickest way."

The sept was if anything a bit closer than the innkeep had mentioned, and so small that Sandor almost let Stranger canter past it. He dismounted and pulled the little bird down as well, looping Stranger's reins over the post near the door. "Just a moment," Sansa mumbled, pulling a bundle out from under the worn, dull cloak he had provided for her. When she shook it open he realized that it was the fine cloak she had been wearing when he stole her from the valley below the Gates of the Moon. "It's not Stark colors," she sighed, "but I suppose that's for the best."

It _was_ for the best, but for once Sandor understood her seemingly girlish desire. The cloak she had with her was a silvery gray with a sort of pale green border, mirroring the green field and silver mockingbird that Littlefinger claimed as his sigil. Sandor wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, that she would look beautiful just as she was, but somehow he did not think this was something a lady would want to hear. In fact, he _knew_ it wasn't something _she_ would want to hear, and though that had never stopped him from saying, well, _anything_, in the past...just now things were different. _You arse, of course they are different. You're about to walk into a sept and take this girl as your wife. Nothing will be the same after this. Nothing._

"I'm ready," Sansa whispered, and Sandor realized that while his mind had been drifting she had been wrapping herself in one of the few bits of finery she had left - and she took his breath away. The setting sun highlighted the auburn tints that had begun to show through the brown dye in her hair; Sansa's fair skin seemed to glow against the shimmer of the delicate fabric. All thoughts of arguing against taking the next step flew from Sandor's head when she slipped her hand into his.

"I've no handsome cloak to drape over your shoulders, little bird," he reminded her, and though he didn't know why his throat felt thick so that he could barely choke out the words. The smile Sansa bestowed on him lit up her entire face. Had Sandor not been conscious of how hideous he looked when he smiled, he might have done so in return.

"I'd rather have your cloak anyway," she admitted. "I kept the other one you gave me for quite some time, you know, but it was left in King's Landing with the rest of my things."

_The other one he'd given her...she couldn't mean..._Sandor shook his head, as if that would somehow make things clearer, make whatever was happening just now easier to understand. When he gestured to the door, she tightened her grip on his hand and they entered the dim little sept. Sansa led him to the Maiden's altar first, where she lit a candle and murmured a prayer that he, a man of nonexistent faith, did not know. The Warrior's altar was next, and while she was murmuring this prayer a back door creaked open and a thin man of middling height entered. He was wearing plain brown robes and the small metal hammer 'round his neck spoke of his devotion to the Smith.

"Good day," the septon greeted them. "Are you merely passing through, this evening?"

"In a way," Sandor replied, not wanting to speak too much of their comings and goings. "We have come to your sept to wed before traveling south together."

The septon peered up at him, but Sandor knew that the flickering candles and the deep shadows of the small room did a good job of hiding his most remarkable features. "You have no family to attend you?" the septon asked.

"I fear not, brother. I have lost much to this war, and my dear..." Sansa stumbled over her words for a moment, and Sandor realized _dammit, we never chose names. Think, girl, think! _The little bird coughed daintily and continued, "My dear Norse is a southron; his family still resides there. We thought to wait, but it would not be seemly for us to travel in such close confines were we not husband and wife, of course."

"Of course, of course," the septon repeated her words. "By the by, you'll need a witness. Give me just a few moments..." He shuffled back the way he'd come and truly did return in a few moments, with a novice in tow. "He's sworn to silence for now, but he'll do."

The septon moved between the small altars of the Father and Mother, the novice taking his place close by. Sansa led Sandor to stand in front of the brother and Sandor felt dumbfounded as more candles were lit, as the others sang and he had no choice but to remain stonily silent as he did not know the music of the faith. Sansa's voice shook when she repeated her own vows; he said his through gritted teeth, for no matter how many parts of him wanted this he could not feel that it was _right_. When the time came to exchange her fine cloak of lies for his plain roughspun rag, he found himself moving more slowly and gently than he could have thought possible. The novice stepped forward to hold the silvery and green cloak, his eyes wide when he saw what Sandor planned to replace it with.

Sandor's mouth twitched in annoyance, but he shook out his mantle and clasped it around Sansa's shoulders, trying not to notice the tears shining in her eyes. For a long moment they did not move, or speak, and the septon seemed to think that they had forgotten what came next. "You must pledge your love with a kiss," he whispered. Sansa started, glanced at the septon and then back at Sandor before inhaling deeply.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," she finally murmured, taking a small step forward so that her face was just below his, her eyes staring up at him so that he was drowning in Tully blue, "and take you for my lord and husband."

Could he say these words, really and truly? Sandor did not know if they must be repeated exactly to be binding, but he _did _know that he must do his best. "With this kiss I pledge myself," he allowed, "and take you for my lady and wife."

Sansa seemed for a moment unsure, but the septon did not appear to have noticed Sandor's small change to the vow and Sandor knew that he needed to finish this before the little bird could chirp her nonsense. He reached up and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck as he bent and pressed his lips to hers. She was stiff to the touch for a short spell, but soon her lips moved under his and in the end their embrace was only interrupted when the septon cleared his throat. Sansa pulled away first and Sandor could see that she was blushing fiercely, but the brother merely smiled at them. There was a bit of fumbling as Sandor paid the man a silver stag; more because he had apparently paid far too much and the septon seemed shocked that a peasant like him would have that sort of coin. Sansa saved the day by wrapping her hand around the brother's, folding the his palm around the coin. She squeezed it gently and whispered a sweet, genuine "Thank you," before Sandor swept her into his arms and carried her out to Stranger, the peals of her laughter ringing like beautiful bells in his ears.

_The deed is done_, Sandor thought, and wondered why he didn't feel happier.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**BRIENNE**

She'd not thought anything could hurt this badly. As the air left her body it seemed all logic left her as well. She knew that that _thing_ was Lady Catelyn, even as she knew that it was not. The woman Brienne had sworn her sword to was kind and honorable; this Lady Stoneheart thought of nothing but vengeance.

Brienne saw Pod's legs kicking as the air left him as well, and though a moment ago Ser Hyle had been cursing their captors his voice had since been silenced. _Think of something, wench_.

It was Jaime's voice that she heard in her head.

_Jaime. We were supposed to find the Stark girls...the Stark _girls. _Sansa, and the young one, the young one..._

"Arya!" Brienne choked out, though the name was garbled and had she not known what she was saying she wouldn't have been able to understand herself.

"What's that, then?" the man in the Hound's helm mocked. "Calling out for your Kingslayer, whore?"

She shook her head, or at least tried to, struggling against the rope as she chanted, "Arya, Arya, Arya," stars exploding before her eyes as the world began to go black.

And then she heard the awful croaking sound of Lady Stoneheart speaking, and Thoros the red priest cried out, "Release them! Immediately, release them _immediately_!"

The rope suddenly stopped cutting into her skin and Brienne's knees hit the ground so hard that one of them cracked. She fell to her side, gasping for air, the pain in her leg nothing compared to the awful spinning feeling in her head. "Pod..." she whispered, her throat aching with the effort.

"Here, ser...sorry, m-my lady..." she heard the boy gasp. There was a groan from someone farther away; it could only be Ser Hyle. They were alive.

_**We**__ are alive_, Brienne rejoiced.

And she fainted.

* * *

><p>A splash of cold water shocked Brienne into consciousness. She found that she still had to gasp for breath; everything hurt and she could only imagine how it would feel later. They had forced her awake immediately, no doubt to hear what she had to say, but other than Arya's name she had little and less to tell them. Still, she had to say <em>something<em>. She could not let Ser Hyle and Pod die, innocent as they were.

The northman, Harwin, was hovering over her with a pail in his hands. "My lady would hear you say that name again, Oathbreaker, and know why you speak of her daughter." He leaned even closer and whispered harshly, "I would know as well, for we had Arya Stark once - before Lady Catelyn was with us - and Arya escaped, never to be seen again."

Brienne struggled to sit up, casting panicked looks at Ser Hyle and Pod before rubbing at her aching neck and rasping, "The Hound...the real one, Sandor Clegane...he had Arya Stark."

"Clegane?" Harwin hissed, exchanging heavy looks with Thoros and the big man who now wore the Hound's helm. "This cannot be true."

"It is," Brienne said with a vigorous nod. "I had it from...from a septon. Clegane and Arya Stark made for Saltpans together, but there was a fight at an inn and Clegane was injured and left for dead. Arya...she was not seen after this, but the septon assured me of the possibility that she is still alive." She left out the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother, as much as she possibly could, but as she told this story Brienne began to wonder how much information the Elder Brother had actually given her - and how much she had missed, how much may have been right in front of her ugly face without her _seeing_ it...

Lady Stoneheart spoke, and through the rattle Brienne understood just a single word: "Truth."

"I have never lied to you, my lady," Brienne said forcefully, struggling to rise to one knee, the stance of a knight bowing to a ruler. "If you would release us I could return to my search, and I _will_ find your daughters, I _will_, if it's the last thing I do."

The dead eyes of the thing that had once been Lady Catelyn were leveled on Brienne, but it spoke to Thoros, its croaking voice too quiet for Brienne to hear the words. Finally Thoros nodded and Stoneheart wrapped herself - itself - whatever she or it was - back in its cloths and cloak.

"My lady gives you three turns of the moon - she is far more generous than she could or should be," the red priest said, narrowing his eyes at Brienne. "You must find us before your time is up, and you must have at least one of her daughters with you - or you will be hanged alongside your companions. We will keep them against your return, so that if you should not come back their lives will be forfeit."

"No!" Pod cried, scrambling to his feet. "I am ser's squire, what will she do without her _squire_?"

"Hush, Pod," Brienne said, sounding harsher than she meant to do. "You will be...safe...with these people. And I will return for you. But this...this I must do on my own."

"Not on your own, no," Thoros said, a grim smile stretching across his lips. "You are to find the Kingslayer as well. Before you find the Stark girl, after, it is no matter to us - but you will bring him back to my lady as well, to answer for his own crimes against her."

"But if Lady St - Lady Catelyn has one of her daughters back, and if Jaime returns to explain himself, won't he have done what he could?" Brienne heard herself cry, too late aware that she was making little to no sense.

"Do as we say, and no harm will come to yourself or your companions. As I said, the Kingslayer must answer for his own crimes. Now I suggest that you take your chance, gather your things and _go_. And remember - three turns of the moon. No more."

* * *

><p>As she rode, Brienne recalled her conversation with the Elder Brother on the Quiet Isle. She went over what she could remember of his words, again and again and again. She thought about their arrival at the septry; the long walk over the mud flats, the stable with the big, nasty black destrier that didn't seem to belong in such a place. <em>What else didn't belong<em>? she asked herself. The Elder Brother, for one, and though she did not feel that he had lied to her she realized, in thinking back over the things he had said, that he had also been vague on quite a few points.

Thinking about the Elder Brother brought to mind another man on the Isle. The gravedigger, who, size-wise, had surely been the largest of the brothers - no, of the novices, he was _new_ to the island...

Brienne gasped and unintentionally yanked on the reins, her mount coming to a quick halt and dancing against the grind of the bit on its mouth.

She may have never heard the gravedigger's name, may have never seen his face, but suddenly it was all too clear how blind and stupid she had been. _As you always are_, she chided herself, fighting back the tears that threatened to well in her eyes.

Brienne put her heels to her mount and pushed the horse hard. She needed to reach Saltpans. She needed to take the ferry to the Quiet Isle. She needed to get there as soon as possible, now if possible, _would that I could have arrived yesterday...would that I had _seen_ these things when I was there in the first place..._

When she arrived in Saltpans some days later she was forced to wait until the following morning in order to take the ferry across to the island…but Brienne did not trust her memory to see her safely across the flats - and so she spent an impatient, sleepless night in the near-destroyed village. Had she believed in ghosts she would have known that this of all places could - _should_ - be haunted. Because of Rorge, Rorge in Sandor Clegane's snarling dog helm, not Sandor Clegane himself because that man, the so-called "Lannister dog", was digging graves and living a life of silence and penance on the Quiet Isle.

Or so Brienne hoped.

* * *

><p>Luckily the ferry did come from the Isle the next morning, and Brienne was recognized and welcomed aboard. By mid-day she was seated in Hermit's Hole and awaiting the Elder Brother, who when he arrived seemed confused but not concerned at her abrupt arrival.<p>

"Lady Brienne," he greeted her kindly, "I had not expected to see you on our Isle..." His voice trailed off and she knew that he had purposely left off the "again", likely because he did not want to be rude. She forced a smile.

"I had not expected to return either, Brother, but I fear that we must talk. Much has transpired since my companions and I left with Septon Meribald and Dog, and I...I need some information from you. I only hope that you will be willing to give it."

The big man, who looked so little like a brother of the faith should, eyed her closely. "I can see that much has happened," was his concerned reply, as he gestured to her bandaged face. "Tell me, is Septon Meribald..."

"So far as I know, he is safe. We parted ways soon after I received this injury," she brushed her fingers across the wrappings, knowing how terrible she must look, not faulting the Elder Brother a bit for being concerned about his friend. "We were attacked at the Inn at the Crossroads, in fact. By Rorge and Biter. They are dead now, I assure you, and yet another outlaw wears the helm of Sandor Clegane. Which leads me to the reason for returning so soon to your Quiet Isle, brother."

The man shifted uncomfortably. "If you know that Clegane is not the one wearing the helm..."

"Yes, I know that. But I also know that you were very vague when we spoke of the Hound during my last visit, and I have come to believe that while the Hound is dead, Sandor Clegane is, in fact, not."

With a sigh, the Elder Brother leaned back in his chair and regarded her seriously. "One must be very careful about stating beliefs and making claims, these days," he admonished, but it was not an unkind warning. "Tell me, why do you believe that Sandor Clegane is alive? And if he should be, what in Westeros could you want with him?"

"I believe he is alive because you never said that he was dead. You said that _the Hound_ was dead, and that Clegane was at rest. Tell me, brother...would you bring me to your gravedigger? I would very much like to see him...in hopes that he may have some information - _any _information - regarding Arya Stark."

Brienne was not the type to be coy; she knew how awkward and unsure of herself she sounded. So she was surprised when the Elder Brother sighed and replied, "Our gravedigger is a novice, Lady Brienne, and not permitted to speak."

"I understand, of course, but brother...this is a matter of life and death. Possibly for the Lady Arya, but certainly for myself, for my squire Pod and my..." Here she paused. Ser Hyle was not her friend, and therefore not truly her companion; she had no idea how to name him. "…and Ser Hyle, who was with me here on your island as well. There are things at work here that, as a brother of the Faith, you would not _want_ to understand." As she said this, Brienne thought of Lady Stoneheart and shuddered involuntarily.

The man watched her for a long moment and then finally leaned forward, a look of pure regret in his eyes. "I am sure you speak the truth, Lady Brienne. But...I am afraid that I cannot help you."

_What now_? Brienne felt panic rising inside of her. She was sure that the gravedigger was Sandor Clegane, _sure of it_, but she was not sure that she had it in her to argue with this man, to force him to grant her access to his pet. "Why?" was the only word that she could force out, and she was aware just how defeated she sounded.

"You were correct to conclude that the grave-digging novice you encountered on your last visit was Sandor Clegane. But I am afraid, my lady, that he is no longer with us."

"No...no longer with you?" She had expected the Elder Brother to continue to be vague with her, or to simply refuse her permission to speak with Clegane, but this...

"He left immediately after you did, in fact," the brother admitted. "I released him, sent him on his way...it seemed to me that the gods had other plans for him."

"Other...plans?" Brienne was not sure that she cared for the direction this conversation was going.

"Yes, Lady Brienne. You yourself told me that you needed to save Sansa Stark, but you did not know where she could possibly be. I sent Sandor Clegane to find her."


	8. Chapter 8

_Special Valentine's Day chapter! :) I mean, what's V-Day without a little smut? Unfortunately my finishing this chapter and getting it posted today means that it may very well be the weekend before I'm able to get more of this story up, but I hope everyone enjoys it anyway!_

_Also, thank you to Krissy, Angelofsnow, Margherita13 & Mirial for the reviews! Sorry I've been lax about this thank you but I've been crazy busy and of course trying to plug away at this story, so lots of things have fallen by the wayside :-/ I hope you guys are still reading and enjoying, and just FYI to those who are reading but haven't reviewed...I always appreciate comments, even constructive criticism (especially on this particular story, as I'm struggling with it a bit)...hint hint ;)  
><em>

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANSA**

Just as she had so many times throughout the past sennight, Sansa Stark realized that she did not know how to feel.

_Or what to think_.

True, this had been different from her wedding to Tyrion Lannister. Different in that she'd wanted it, asked for it, practically _begged_ for it. And therein lay the problem. Not only did Sandor seem unsure of, even against, the idea...but when they stood in the sept and said their vows, even then he would not say that he loved her. Would not, or _could_ not, and the possibility that it could be the latter caused a sharp pain in her chest that made holding back her tears nearly impossible.

They were both silent as Stranger carried them back to the inn, silent as they ate the meal the innkeep set in front of them. Sansa remained silent still when Sandor ordered a jug of wine, though she found a tiny bit of relief in the fact that he poured two cups of it and grunted, "To celebrate," as he handed one of them to her. She drank with him, sucking the wine down quickly - too quickly - before covering his hand with hers and announcing that she was going to get some rest. Sandor glanced at the jug of wine before replying, "I won't be far behind."

Sansa sighed but said nothing in reply. Instead she returned to their room and undressed herself, draping his cloak over her shoulders - the cloak he had given her at their wedding mere hours before - and leaning back in the bed to await him. She could barely contain her joy when he came through the door not half an hour later, and she nearly giggled when he stopped short to stare at her lying naked on the bed, the cloak resting on her shoulders but spread out and around her so that nothing was hidden. He practically slammed the door behind himself and growled, "What if someone else had been in the passage? You could have been seen!"

She blushed at the thought but refused to let him cow her with his frustration. "I hardly think that matters, as no one was there," she smiled. "Now I wish you would come to me...it is our wedding night, after all." She patted the space beside her and tried to ignore the blazing look that he was giving her.

_Blazing. Fire. You _must _speak with him about what you saw..._

_No. No._ Sansa pushed that thought out of her head for the time being. It was her _wedding_ night, really and truly, and though she'd been married before, though she'd _been_ with Sandor already, she refused to ruin the last few hours of comfort they had by questioning him about that particular vision.

Besides, how could she ever explain knowing about it in the first place?

Before she could get further in her thoughts Sandor had taken two long strides, crossing the room to stand above her. She could see that he was hard - _thank the gods for breeches_, she tittered to herself - but when she reached for him he grabbed her hand and held it in his, his touch somehow firm and gentle at the same time. "I don't think so, little bird," he rasped. For a moment Sansa wondered if maybe he would refuse her this, though he hadn't refused her the marriage itself...she recalled his words, that he gave himself to her rather than his love and wondered if one was really so much less or more than the other...but in the work of a moment he had slid onto the bed beside her and crushed her against him, his lips seeking hers with a snarl that excited rather than frightened her.

Again, though, despite his snarl Sandor was gentle when he kissed her, his tongue brushing across her lips until she sighed and parted them, letting him explore her mouth and reveling at the feel of the rough side of his mouth against hers. As he kissed her he took a nipple in one hand, rolling it between calloused fingers, and every touch was somehow both abrasive and soft and she whimpered into his mouth.

This proof of her need seemed to excite him; his hand pushed her legs apart and found her woman's place, bringing another sigh forth as he pinched her nub between thumb and forefinger and slid his middle finger inside of her, pressing up into her center and causing her to dig her fingertips into his back, clutching at him in desperation. "Oh..." she breathed, breaking their kiss and tucking her head into the dip between Sandor's shoulder and his neck as he twitched his finger _just so_. "Sandor...please..." She wanted him wholly and completely, now, now, _now_...

His face was buried in her hair and he chuckled, his breath sending a tingle down her spine just as he slid his forefinger inside of her as well, flicking at the hard little pearl above her opening with the tip of his thumb. Without thinking Sansa bit down on his shoulder to stifle her moan, and in response Sandor grumbled, "Is that how you would have it, little bird?" before pulling away from her to remove his breeches and tunic. She let out a squeak of disappointment at his sudden absence and reached for him; his mouth twisted into a cruel and unattractive sort of grin that nevertheless sent a hot rush of pleasure shooting straight into her core.

The moment he divested himself of his clothing Sandor was back at her side again, propped up against the wall at the head of the bed and pulling her onto his lap. She made to sit there as she would have as a child and he laughed, pulling her around to face him. "I would have you look at me," he said hoarsely, and she could see that he still worried she wouldn't do so.

Sansa heeded him then, lowering herself over him until she was filled close to bursting with his hard and nearly unforgiving manhood. She placed her hands on either side of his face as she stilled herself, waiting for her body to accept him as she knew it would, knew it _must_. "I am sorry," she whispered. Sandor let out a low moan and closed his eyes, tipping his head back a bit, but not enough to pull himself from her touch.

"For what, little bird?" he mumbled.

He moved under her, bracing himself on his hands and pushing up just a little, just enough to make her release a breathy "Oh..." before gathering herself long enough to lean forward, lean into him, wrap her hands around his neck and brush her lips over his face - his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his lips, both scarred and unscarred. "I'm sorry for ever being afraid of you. I'm sorry for spouting empty pleasantries to you. I'm sorry for not going with you the night of the Blackwater, sorry for not seeing what you were to me until you were gone..." She moved over him then, an echo of his words from so many days ago resounding in her head, _"Ride me like you would a horse."_

"I'm sorry too, little bird," he grunted, wrapping his hands around her waist to guide her, pulling her close and brushing his lips across hers. Her eyes were drifting closed and she fought to stop this from happening as her heart fluttered, hoping to hear him say the thing she'd been waiting to hear since she'd first said it to him. _You love me_, she thought, and wanted it so much to be true that when she sighed, "Why?" and he answered, his response cut her to the quick.

"I'm sorry for letting them beat you in King's Landing...for not doing more than I did. I'm sorry for leaving you there to be married off to the Imp and stolen away by Littlefinger. I'm...I'm sorry that I didn't come for you sooner." He murmured these words into her mouth, his lips still brushing hers as he spoke, her movements slowing, stopping as the weight of what he was saying hit her.

It was not what she wanted to hear, to be sure, but something in Sandor's eyes stopped Sansa from sighing a complaint. Instead she kissed him deeply and began rocking over him again. He cupped her breasts in his hands and brushed his fingers over her nipples and she bit down gently on his lower lip, feeling the give on the soft side and the tough protection of the scarring on the other.

Their movements remained slow and deliberate, something their coupling had never been before, and when Sansa's pleasure came it was gradual, drawn out, building in force for so long that she was beginning to think she could no longer stand that feeling of being on the edge when she suddenly tipped over it, contracting and convulsing around him for several moments and murmuring his name with every spasm that shook her until he buried his head against her neck, whispering "Sansa" as he spilled his seed inside of her.

They clung to each other for some time after, until their labored breathing had calmed and Sansa began to feel a chill as the sheen of sweat coating her skin dried. Finally Sandor gently removed her from his lap, tucking his cloak back around her and avoiding her eyes as he said, "It's time for us to move on, little bird." Sansa let her gaze linger on the comforts of the little room, the safe warm space that had been theirs for so short a time, and sighed.

"To Maidenpool, then?" she finally asked.

Sandor nodded. "To Maidenpool, to a ship, and across the Narrow Sea...where you will be safe."

Sansa nestled against him on the comfortable bed, determined to make the most of their last few moments here. _I am always safe with you_, she thought, but for once kept this sentiment to herself.


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

They left the inn during the blackest hour of the night, stealing into the stables and galloping off on Stranger and the mountain pony. Before long they had to slow - Sansa's pony not having the destrier's stamina - but they traveled down the road through the night, until the hour of the nightingale when the sky began to gray and Sandor led them off the proverbial beaten path. The going would be slower this way, of course, and in some ways more dangerous...but staying on the road meant chancing encounters with others. Other peasants who would question them as equals, lords and ladies who could know either or both of them...

_We will never be truly safe_.

Even across the Narrow Sea, there were Westerosi eyes and ears. Sandor recalled a night in the Red Keep, years ago now, when he had drunkenly stumbled down the wrong passageway in an attempt to find a place to pass out. He stopped in an alcove to take a piss and that's when he had heard the voice of the web-spinning eunuch approaching. Sandor had cursed softly and tucked himself back into his breeches, pressing against the wall so as not to be seen.

"I apologize that I could not give you a warmer welcome, my friend. I did not expect your arrival so soon, and one must always be...careful," Varys was saying.

"Just so," the other man replied. "The wind was at our backs all the way from Pentos. We made good time. Now, I would hear this important task you would set for me."

"There is a very important young man and his little sister. They resided in Braavos for some time but in recent years have been wandering the free cities somewhat...aimlessly. Your rewards would be great should you take them in. Foster them, as we say," Varys murmured.

"Why did they leave Braavos?" the stranger questioned. His tone was curious, but there was something else in there as well. A warning, mayhaps; or on the other hand merely a cautious nature showing through.

"Their longtime protector passed into the arms of the gods, as they say," Varys sighed, "and alas, before I could find them a competent new keeper they slipped away from that city. It took me quite a while to catch up with them - I've always had trouble infiltrating Braavos." The admission seemed to pain the eunuch; the disgust with either the city or with himself was evident in his tone.

"How...surprising," the other man said, and Sandor could hear the grin in his voice. "You, who seem to have placed your little birds...everywhere."

"No one was more surprised than myself. Thankfully it was not _too _long before my birds caught wind of a so-called 'Beggar King' who had a strikingly beautiful little sister alongside...and so here we are."

"The rewards will be great, you say?"

"As they quite often are, when one does my bidding. But let us not speak of details here...my little birds are not the only ones with ears, here in the Red Keep."

The footsteps of the two men had faded into the distance, and Sandor had stumbled from his hiding place and headed straight to his chambers. At the time, this conversation had meant little and less to him; at the moment, he was merely glad that he hadn't been so drunk as to forget it entirely. At least he now knew to avoid Pentos.

Of course, that still left eight Free Cities from which to choose.

It was cold these days; cold during the day and even colder at night. They had to swing wide around Saltpans, and this led them dangerously close to Harrenhal. Though Littlefinger was certainly not occupying his seat at the moment, Sandor could sense how uncomfortable Sansa was with the knowledge that so few leagues stood between them and the haunted old castle. It took another sennight before they were able to curve back around toward their first destination.

"Last I knew, Lord Tarly held Maidenpool and was butchering anyone he thought had caused or would cause trouble. We'll need to keep our heads down and covered and we musn't linger," Sandor reminded Sansa. "What are our names again?"

"Norse and Nora Wynrent. I am a bastard girl born in the Riverlands; you hail from the Reach," Sansa intoned. They had spent some time building a story the previous day, and though it seemed like a mere necessity to Sandor he could tell that Sansa had enjoyed it at the time. After, though, as they had clung to each other in the bedroll, Sansa had whispered, "You will still call me Sansa when we are alone? And 'little bird' sometimes, as well?"

Sandor had drawn her closer and kissed her forehead before admitting, "I will call you by your own name as often as I can." He almost asked if she would do the same for him, but then he didn't have to.

"Good," she sighed, tilting her head to look at him. "And I will call you Sandor, when no one else is there to hear."

He had felt a strange tightening in his chest then, and his throat grew thick the way it had the evening they'd wed, when she was wrapped in her silvery grey and pale green cloak and the sun was highlighting the red in her hair. With his arms still wrapped tightly about her waist, he slid her up and entered her, as always amazed at how just a bit of physical contact made her wet for him. "Sansa..." he moaned softly. "My little bird."

"Sandor," she answered him, "my love." He turned his face away and grimaced. _Must she persist in that?_The idea that Sansa Stark was in love with him thrilled him - almost to the point of scaring him, were he afraid of anything but fire. Whatever she felt it was surely misplaced; all he knew was that when this war was over, when he was sure that she was safe, they could stop pretending at being husband and wife. She would go back to Winterfell someday; it was hers by right and she belonged there. Mayhaps she would marry a southron lord and help solidify peace in Westeros; on the other hand, she may very well marry a Northern lord and assert Northern independence. He would follow her wherever she went, if she would still have him, but he would do so as nothing more than the loyal dog that he was.

For now, though..._for now_...he would take her as she would let him, be it wrapped in a bedroll with the hard ground beneath them or on a questionable pallet in an even more questionable inn or in a cot in the cramped cabin of a ship.

One evening he could not get Sansa to eat. She was pale and wan and when he asked her, perhaps not kindly enough, what was wrong she bit her lip and replied, "I'm just...tired. Will we reach Maidenpool soon?"

"In a few days at most," he assured her, giving her a careful look. It was so cold now that they were forced to travel during the day and huddle together at night, but he still insisted on being up before dawn and traveling until dark and what with eating and...other things...he doubted they slept for more than a few hours each night. No small wonder the girl was exhausted. "We can...sleep a bit longer tonight, if you'd like."

"That would be nice," Sansa said, smiling in relief.

Sandor was true to his word. He let her sleep the next morning while he packed up what he could and cut up some bread and cheese and the last of the cold greasy sausage they had saved from their short time at the inn. When he bent to wake her a good hour after sunrise, Sansa smiled sleepily and wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Yet when he offered her the food, she curled her lip at the sausage and cheese and took only a few small bits of the bread. "You need to eat," he grunted, annoyed.

"I know," she sighed, "but I'm just...not hungry. Between the lack of sleep and the stress of travel and the fear of what will happen in Maidenpool..."

_Women_. "Fine. Put some of that in your pack so that you need not bother me while we're riding." He almost felt bad when he saw the hurt look that flitted across Sansa's face, but then he remembered that he'd let her sleep far too long...and yet she was still being difficult. He helped her onto her pony and mounted Stranger. They pushed through the forest and met with the kingsroad, the last and most perilous leg of an already dangerous journey. A feeling of unease had been gradually growing inside of him these past few days, and he didn't think it would abate until they were on a ship and out of the Bay of Crabs, at least.

Stranger smelled the other horses before Sandor heard or saw anything. When the destrier spun to face the wrong way up the road, nostrils suddenly flared, snorting angrily, Sandor drew him even with Sansa's pony and held up a hand. "Not a word," he mouthed, and she nodded, her already pale skin blanching even whiter.

Sandor strained to hear as his big black horse danced beneath him. Stranger's ears were pinned back - whoever these people were, they could not be far off - but it was several long moments before Sandor heard the voices. The forest was so still that though he couldn't make out what they were saying, he could tell that one was a man and one was a woman. If there were more than two it wasn't many more; the sound of approaching horses simply wasn't loud enough. _A few I can take, especially if one is a woman_, he thought with something like relief.

Relief that disappeared the moment he heard the man say, "Seven hells, I hope they're making for Maidenpool. I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you for acting like she was in much graver danger than is in fact the case. This begging brother of yours was _sure_ Clegane would know to remove her from Westeros from a time?"

Behind Sandor, the little bird gasped, and he knew that she knew that voice as well. As the unknown woman's voice responded wearily, "Trust me, I'm not fond of the idea of another visit to Maidenpool…but that is the only information we have to go on for now," Sandor drew his sword, so that when Jaime Lannister rounded the bend his son's former dog was ready and waiting.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**JAIME**

_A day's ride, my arse._

That's what Brienne had said, the night she'd found him in Pennytree. She claimed to have found Sansa Stark, that the girl was but a day's ride away, and that if they didn't leave immediately the girl would die. At the hand of the Hound, nonetheless, a man who'd apparently risen from the dead - no, never been dead in the first place. "We can't leave tonight," he'd insisted. "We can't ride, not with such little light." He'd gestured to the half-moon and she'd looked up, her ugly bandaged face appearing at turns annoyed, concerned, and finally, resigned.

They'd left before dawn, though, and he'd followed her all day in near silence. _Nothing new there. _Brienne of Tarth was not a loquacious woman, to be sure, but how little she spoke combined with the fact that she would not look him in the eye had made Jaime more than a little suspicious.

As the sun had begun to set he'd finally reminded her that they should be reaching their destination. Soon. And that's when Brienne had stopped her horse, turned to him, and admitted that they would need quite a bit longer than one day to reach Maidenpool.

"Maidenpool?" Jaime did not like the sound of this. "What are you about, Brienne?"

The Maid of Tarth flushed red and averted her eyes. "I thought...if I told you the entire truth...that you wouldn't agree to accompany me."

Jaime had to stop himself from growling his original nickname for her, just then. _You've not called her Wench in quite some time, best not pick up with that again now she's got you by the..._

"Tell me. _Now_," he ordered, dismounting from Honor and reaching for his things.

"You'll...you'll not try to leave?"

"Not yet. At least not until you've explained why you lied. Do you have any idea where Sansa Stark is, _my lady_? Is the Hound truly alive, and does he in fact have her?"

Brienne dismounted as well. She was obviously nervous, shuffling her feet and chewing on her lip. Finally she admitted, "I...I do have an _idea_ where Sansa Stark is. Where she _may_be. And the Hound...he is alive, it is true, the Elder Brother at the Quiet Isle saved him. He had nothing to do with the rape of Saltpans, and when..." she trailed off, looking, if possible, even more embarrassed.

"When what?" Jaime prompted. When she continued to remain silent, he warned, "You must tell all, Brienne, for only then will I be able to decide what to do." _Gods, I have my own business to attend to. I've left my men wasting away in some inconsequential Riverlands village. I won't have you leading me on some wild...wolf chase!_

"I told the Elder Brother what I was about. I told him everything. And then I left, and he called Clegane to him and told him to find Sansa. Apparently Clegane had spoken to him of the girl. Of...of things that had happened in King's Landing. Of how he regretted not helping her, not taking her away from there..."

"Did he now?" Jaime pondered this. Could it be that the little wolf girl had wooed the Lannister dog?

Brienne shrugged. "The Elder Brother seemed to think that Clegane would not harm Sansa Stark, but..."

"You have your doubts." She nodded. "Rightfully so," he frowned.

They had spoken for quite some time that night. Jaime made Brienne tell him everything that had happened to her since they'd last met, and when they came back around to Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane and she explained her Maidenpool theory, he had to grudgingly agree that it was their best option. Yet the next day when they were back on the road, and the day after that, and the day after _that..._he continued to press her with random asides about Maidenpool and whether they would truly find the Hound and the Stark girl - or their trail - there.

So that when they rounded a bend in the kingsroad just a few days' ride from the port town and came face-to-face with Sandor Clegane, his drawn sword, and a pretty young peasant woman who, knowing what they knew, could only be Sansa Stark in disguise, Jaime was torn between wondering if they were a mere vision - and laughing hysterically at what could only be called sheer luck.

"Gods, Brienne. For once you were right," Jaime finally murmured. She was obviously as shocked as he was but still had the ability to shoot a frustrated look at him before calling out to the other pair of riders.

"My lady Sansa?" Brienne's voice was unsure. Jaime rolled his eyes.

"Greetings, Hound," he said, wishing he could lay his hand on his sword hilt. But he had just one hand nowadays, and needed to keep that one on the reins.

"I don't want any trouble," Sandor Clegane growled. "With either of you." He eyed Brienne as well, looking her up and down with eyes that seemed both amused and disgusted.

"If you don't want any trouble, you may want to sheathe your sword," Jaime said. He felt himself smile but it was a surface expression that he knew did not reach his eyes.

"I'll do that when you've gone on your way, Kingslayer."

"Now, now, Clegane, is that any way to speak to one of our former keepers?"

"_You_were never my keeper."

"Perhaps not," Jaime assented, "but my sister was, and I think that should suffice."

"Does it now?" the Hound snarled, the meaning behind his words quite clear.

"Enough!" Brienne interjected, pulling her sword from its scabbard and urging her horse forward a few steps. "Your Elder Brother told me where you'd gone, Clegane. If he was right about you, then we all want the same thing - for the Lady Sansa to be safe."

"I'd sooner believe that your companion wants to bring Sansa Stark's head back to his _sister_," Clegane spat. "And as you're with him, I'm not about to trust you, either. Especially not with your sword poking about like that."

"We swore an oath, Clegane," Jaime said. "We told Lady Catelyn that we would bring her daughters to her. You were the last person we know who saw Arya Stark, and now you've got Sansa Stark nipping at your heels, though the gods only know why. Mayhaps we could dismount and put away our swords and have a nice chat?"

"My mother is dead," the girl suddenly said, her Tully blue eyes focused on him and blazing with anger. Her hood had fallen back and though her hair was mostly muddy brown, the auburn roots told its true color. "And I do not believe she would have sent _you_ to find me."

"Well I apologize for her thoughtlessness and I am sorry for her death, but when she released me from my captivity at Riverrun Lady Catelyn did in fact pair me with Brienne here and send us to bring you and your sister Arya back to her."

"Fine." Sansa Stark tossed her hair defiantly. "You've done all you could; you've found me. But as she's gone, and my brother as well - dead at the hands of _your _pawns the Freys - I'd just as soon continue on my way with Sandor."

"Sandor, is it?" Jaime narrowed his eyes and urged his horse forward, causing the Hound to snarl and spin his nasty destrier around to block the girl. "How informal. What have you two been about, I wonder?" He turned Honor, parading the horse the other way, keeping out of the reach of Sandor's sword but focusing on the girl. "How long have you been together?"

"A...a few weeks," Sansa Stark stuttered.

Brienne was at Jaime's side again, forcing him to still his mount. "My Lady," she said gently. "I must request that you come with us. I do not suggest that _you_ come," she told the Hound, "and I'd rather not fight you. I'm sure Ser Jaime feels the same way."

The Hound began to scoff, but Sansa interrupted him. She rode forward, her peasant's cloak billowing out around her, and it was then that Jaime knew how very much must have happened in just a few weeks' time. He'd not seen Sansa Stark in...in years, now, truthfully. She'd grown taller, filled out, and of course there was that awful dyed hair. But what truly shocked him was how pale and tired she looked. Pale, and tired, yet _glowing_.

_Cersei...she glowed, too. Glowed in her well-rested, well-fed, finely-clothed body..._

"We can discuss my going with you, if you insist," Sansa capitulated. "But I cannot leave Sandor. We've been wed, you see." Sandor Clegane made a strangled noise, but she placed a reassuring hand on his arm and smiled up at him. A sweet, sad smile that seemed to be asking Clegane's forgiveness before she faced Jaime and Brienne and spoke again.

"I believe I am with child."


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

****_Thanks again for the wonderful reviews that I've received! To **Linda** - I can't reply to you in a message because you don't have a account, but I'm sorry if you find Sandor to be a bit too "mean"...honestly my take on it with this particular fic is that of course he's still the rough-around-the-edges Sandor that GRRM created, and on top of that he's kind of dealing with a lot between saving Sansa and then in his mind also sort of ruining her by taking her maidenhead, plus kind of being pushed into their little "marriage", and now a surprise baby :O I just believe that Sandor would react to this with his usual kind of nasty attitude because he doesn't know how else TO react :)_

**SANSA**

It was only a day or two after they left the inn when she had begun feeling ill. It was never an overwhelming sensation; at first she told herself that she really was simply tired. That could happen, she knew - becoming so tired that one felt sick in the belly. But when the time came that she could barely stand to stomach food, Sansa knew that this had to be more than just exhaustion.

She thought back, tried to count the days, and though it took her a few tries to get the exact number...in the end it did not matter. She should have had her moon blood sometime in the midst of their journey…certainly by the time they'd spent at the inn. Sansa had dealt with this women's curse for well over half a year now, and as she was a healthy highborn lady it had always been regular.

_My lady mother had very little time with my father before he left to join Robert's Rebellion_, she recalled. _Yet she gave birth to Robb while he was still away._

Sansa was as frightened as she was excited. Even when she pushed the concerns about bastardy to the back of her mind, she had to admit that she knew Sandor would not exactly be _happy_ about this. Convincing him to wed had been difficult enough...and a _child..._

_He need not know quite yet,_ she reassured herself. _You have time_.

Jaime Lannister and that big ugly maid had ruined that, though. She'd heard that the Kingslayer had lost a hand, but he was still Jaime Lannister - and this woman was obviously a warrior in her own right. Surely Sandor could beat them, but it would not be an easy fight, really, and Sansa preferred him whole, healthy, uninjured.

So though her hands trembled with nerves and fear, though she'd wanted to share this news with Sandor and Sandor alone, Sansa gave up her newly discovered secret.

The look on the warrior maid's face was one of shock and horror; Jaime Lannister _hissed _in surprise and said, "Seven hells, Clegane, what have you done?"

Sansa clenched her hand over Sandor's arm as he sneered, "Trust me, Lannister, the girl was perfectly willing."

"Lady Sansa...is this...is this true?" Brienne asked in disbelief.

Anger welled up inside of Sansa and threatened to spill over. Anger at the disbelief of this woman who was just as ugly as she believed Sandor to be; anger at Jaime Lannister's surprise when he had been with his own _sister_; anger at herself for not saving her secret, for putting Sandor on the spot as she had just now. "Please, would you give us a moment?" she said through gritted teeth. Jaime and Brienne glanced at each other and the look that passed between them made Sansa want to scream. "We'll dismount," Sansa offered. "We won't run." She felt Sandor stiffen under her hand, but there was nothing to be done. Jaime and Brienne knew where she and Sandor were going, and they must know that she and Sandor had nowhere else _to_ go.

"Dismount, then, and hand your horses' reins here," Jaime said.

"You'll not want to get so close to Stranger, here," Sandor warned snidely.

"I'll take my chances, Hound. And you'd best watch your tongue, for you're walking on thin _ice_."

"Sandor," Sansa said gently. "Please." When he looked at her there were so many emotions burning in his eyes that it nearly took her breath away. The anger was there, the old anger that had frightened her so, and Sansa knew without a shadow of a doubt that some of it was for her. A shiver ran up her spine and she turned to struggle down off her pony's back. Sandor dismounted, as always a surprisingly smooth moment for a man of his stature, and stalked off to the edge of the road, Sansa biting her lip and following.

"Not too far, now," she heard Jaime Lannister call, and at the sound of his voice Sandor stopped and spun around, his hands grabbing roughly at Sansa's shoulders, drawing her close enough to talk softly but keeping her too far away for her to reach for him.

"Tell me that was a well-told lie, Sansa," he rasped, and beneath the anger in his eyes she saw something else.

_Fear_.

Sansa could not help herself. "What are you afraid of, Sandor?" she asked, lifting her hand as she would if she were going to touch his cheek, though his grip on her made that impossible.

"Fire," was his immediate response, "but you know that, little bird."

"Don't," she snapped, knowing that he was not being honest and hating him for it, Sandor who had always been nothing if not brutally honest with her...

"Enough. Tell me now, little bird, tell me that you aren't."

"Would you have me lie, then?" she asked softly. His hard gray eyes met hers and for a long moment they merely looked at each other. Finally Sandor shuddered and dropped his hands to his sides, but when Sansa stepped forward to embrace him he held them up again and took a step back.

"I did not mean for this," he mumbled. "I did not want it."

"I didn't mean for it either," she admitted. "But it is happening now, and we must make the best of it."

Sandor made a helpless gesture. "No good can come of this," he said. "You are well and truly ruined. Our marriage is a farce, made under false names. Gods, Sansa, you are still married to the Kingslayer's brother! He's not like to forget that, no more than the Imp is. I won't trust that that little bastard is dead until I've seen his head on a spike."

Her stomach fairly leapt into her throat, and Sansa had to press the back of one hand to her mouth to keep the bile down. She stood there until the sick feeling calmed a bit, and when she removed her hand from her face she grabbed one of Sandor's hands with it before he could pull away. "It doesn't matter now," she whispered hoarsely, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him. "It _can't_ matter now. Come. If we face them together...if they see that we want this..."

"Want _what_, little bird? You wanted to play at being husband and wife, and though I didn't agree I gave in. I cannot pretend that you should have my child, that this is in any way proper, or right, or...or _safe_."

"Safe?" Sansa willfully ignored what he'd said about their marriage and latched onto the part of his admission that confused her. "Sandor, women have children all of the time. My own mother had _five_. And I _am_ my mother's daughter."

"Look at me, Sansa! I'm...I'm a monster. And my brother..."

With her free hand Sansa reached up and cupped his cheek. "You are not a monster. And your brother was an abomination, but he has nothing to do with this."

What Sandor did next was so unlike him that it worried her even more than his anger or his rude words. He closed his eyes, pressed his cheek into her palm and heaved a sigh. "A child of my blood could be like him," he finally rasped.

Sansa stepped closer, pressing herself against him, and stood on her tiptoes to brush her lips over his. "No," she murmured. "A child of _our _blood will be strong, loyal, and the heir to the North." When Sandor opened his eyes again and looked at her, she could see that he didn't believe her – but just then Jaime shouted for them.

"I think all four of us have some things to discuss, Lord and Lady Clegane," the Kingslayer called sarcastically. Sansa gripped Sandor's hand even tighter as they turned and walked back toward Jaime and the warrior maid Brienne. "Good girl," Jaime said condescendingly. He had dismounted from his horse and staked it to the ground at the side of the road and was pacing impatiently nearby.

"Enough, Kingslayer. We had a plan of our own and we'd like to get on with it," Sandor growled.

"A plan? Let's hear it, then," Jaime replied, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the closest tree. Sandor looked to Sansa and she gulped.

"I'm a bastard girl from the Riverlands. Nora Rivers. Sandor is Norse Wynrent and hails from the Reach. He came north to smith for a small lord and was burned in a terrible accident. We...we were recently married, just before leaving home to travel south for his father's funeral."

Brienne was watching them with a look that resembled pity, but Jaime's mouth was twitching and then, a moment later, he was laughing. When he laughed, Sansa suddenly understood why so many – including herself – had once thought Jaime Lannister the height of handsome. His eyes flashed and their corners crinkled sweetly, his perfect white teeth were bared, and all of this came together to make him look like a jolly golden god. "What...what is so funny?" she finally asked.

"My dear Lady Sansa," Jaime Lannister said with a grin, "I've recalled something that I recently said to a...a boy I know. He asked me why I killed all of the Starks, and I told him that I'd not killed them all. I told him that you were alive and that if the gods were good, you would forget you were a Stark at all. That you'd wed - " here he broke off again, bending at the waist and laughing as if fit to burst until Sansa stomped her foot in annoyance and Sandor growled another warning and Brienne murmured his name and brought him back to them. Jaime straightened and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes before continuing, "I said you should wed a blacksmith or an innkeep and whelp a bunch of children. That you'd never fear some knight coming by and murdering your family.

"And now here you are, falsely wed to a man who is playing at being a blacksmith - with a baby in your belly - and if I have the right of Clegane here you'll certainly never have to fear for your life or that of your children. Not so long as he lives."

"Will you let us be on our way then?" Sansa asked hopefully, and when Jaime leveled his gaze on her she thought for a moment that mayhaps he would...

And then Brienne spoke. "I'm afraid we cannot do that, Lady Sansa. You see...I've made a promise. An oath. Several lives hang in the balance. You must come with us, if only for now...but I swear that I will do everything in my power to see you safely on your way as soon as possible."

"Bloody hells," Sandor swore. "Give me one good reason not to cut the two of you down, right here, right now. Kingslayer knows I could do it, too." One look at Jaime's face told Sansa that Sandor spoke the truth. This woman may be some sort of warrior, but she was nothing compared to Sandor. Jaime Lannister may have been good competition for him in the past, but with the loss of his sword hand the amount of prowess he'd had was cut to the quick.

"I would give you several good reasons to come with us, if I thought you'd care about half of them or believe the other half," Brienne sighed. "The fact of the matter is that I need you to trust me. All of you." She looked pointedly at Jaime just then, who gave her a confused, concerned glance in return.

"I don't understand," Sansa stated fiercely. "You know my situation, yet you would make us move in the wrong direction? What lives other than mine own, Sandor's, and our child's 'hang in the balance'? Where would you take us?"

The warrior maid took quite some time to answer, biting her lip and looking so nervous that Sansa began to feel something akin to fright. When Brienne finally spoke, though, her words made no sense at all to any of them - leastwise Jaime Lannister, by the look Sansa noted on his face.

"I must return you to...to your mother."


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

"Her _mother_? Do you not recall the Red Wedding, you buggering fool?" Sandor heard himself say. Sansa had nearly collapsed against him at Brienne's pronouncement, and though she still held tight to his hand he could feel her trembling like a leaf.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm inclined to agree with Clegane here. What are you about, Brienne?" Jaime Lannister asked. Sandor couldn't help but give him a scathing look.

"Lady Catelyn is..." Brienne seemed to be searching for a word and coming up empty-handed.

"Alive?" Sansa whispered, and the hope buried in her voice was near enough to make Sandor ache for her.

Brienne raised her eyes and stared at Sansa for a long moment, her ugly face paling noticeably. "Not...not alive, not really," she admitted. "Lady Sansa, I must ask what you know of Beric Dondarrion."

_There_ was a name that Sandor had hoped never to hear again. He tensed, causing Sansa to look up at him uncertainly, but he kept his eyes focused on Brienne as his little bird stuttered, "L-lord Beric? He...he left King's Landing years ago..." She looked up at him again, but Sandor could not bring himself to meet her gaze just now, and she finally turned back to Brienne and finished, "He went to find the Mountain. For...for my father. And he never came back." Sansa paused; Sandor could practically hear the tears welling in her eyes. "Lord Beric, I mean," she finally whispered. "He never came back. There were rumors..."

Sandor couldn't stand it anymore; he had to bring this conversation to an end – for the little bird as much as for himself. "There were rumors that Dondarrion had been killed, but then it was said he was alive again. No, this person stabbed him through with a spear; someone else caved his skull in with a mace. But there would always be another story, a newer story, of he and his men raiding the Riverlands, killing lions and wolves alike. Is that the tale you're looking for, wench?"

Jaime Lannister stood straight and stepped forward. "She has a name, Clegane."

"And I don't care if she does," Sandor snarled. "She's beating around the bush, here, and I want to know _why_."

Jaime sighed. "Funnily enough, I find myself agreeing with you again, Clegane. Brienne..."

The woman turned to Sandor and said, "Dondarrion is gone. Dead, if you will. It must have been not long after you stole Arya Stark from him and his men. They found Lady Catelyn's body downriver from the Twins. It was days after the Red Wedding but Dondarrion was able to...revive her...somehow. He gave what Thoros had given him, to her. But she's...different. She's not Lady Catelyn anymore." Brienne sounded sad, but Sandor was too busy grasping for words of his own. _The little bird doesn't know that I had Arya_, he thought, something like panic rising inside him. Yet when Sansa spoke, she did not mention Arya at all. _Did she not hear the woman?_ Sandor wondered, though he knew that even if that was the case the information would come out eventually.

"Take me to my mother, I want to see her...I _need_ to see her," Sansa cried out, tears spilling from her eyes.

"And I need to take you to her, Lady Sansa, but you must understand that she is not truly your mother anymore." Brienne looked to Sandor again and said, "I am sure she is not as Dondarrion was. I'm told that he walked and talked and even somewhat _acted_ like a man. Lady Catelyn - Lady Stoneheart, they call her now - is more a...solid form of a ghost, or a spirit. She is filled with anger and thinks of nothing but vengeance, and I fear that in going to her we put ourselves in grave danger."

"Then why go at all?" Sandor growled, wrapping his arm around Sansa and pulling her against him. _If I break for Stranger now and leave her pony behind..._

"We have to go," Sansa whispered, looking up at him with those tear-filled Tully blue eyes. "She's my _mother_."

"She's not, little bird," he replied, forcing himself to speak gently. "You heard what the wench said. I...I saw Dondarrion. There was something not right about _him_, and this Brienne here claims that Lady Catelyn is even less than he was."

Sansa ripped herself out of his grasp, though the only reason she was able to do so was because she took him by surprise. She spun to face him, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I _know_ that you saw Dondarrion. You _fought_ him, and my sister was there watching. And then she tried to escape from those men, only for you to catch her. What happened to her, Sandor? Is she still alive? Do you know where she's gone, where she could have gone? Because my mother would like to know, I'm sure. Just as she wants to see me, to know that I'm alive and well and...and..."

"Pregnant by the Lannister dog? Yes, I'm sure she'd love to know _that_," he spat out. He could feel the burnt corner of his lips twitching but was unable to make it stop.

"I was going to say _happy_," Sansa murmured. For a moment Sandor felt a bit disconcerted, that word - _happy_ - echoing in his head, something he'd never thought he could be, never thought he could cause another person to say. But in the work of a moment his frustration got the better of him and he focused on what she had just told him - that she knew he'd had Arya Stark with him at one point in time.

"How did you come to know that I fought Dondarrion? That your little she-wolf sister was with me?" he asked through gritted teeth. Sansa looked away from him and he reached for her, pinching her chin between his fingers as he'd sometimes done in King's Landing so very long ago. For a moment she looked almost frightened again, so that when he said, "Tell me," it was less an order and more a plea.

"I...I can't explain it," she replied, and though he knew she was telling the truth he felt his fingers tighten their grip as if they had a mind of their own. Sansa screwed her eyes shut and reached for his hand, her gentle touch causing him to release her automatically. She continued to hold his hand, her eyes still closed, something like concentration on her face.

"Little bird?" Sandor finally asked, and when she opened her eyes they were no longer angry. They were full of a soft sort of sadness, and when she smiled at him he could almost forget about Beric buggering Dondarrion and his flaming sword, about the little wolf-bitch and that mess with Polliver and the Tickler at that inn, about lying in feverish pain near the roadside until the Elder Brother showed up and saved him.

"It's some sort of bond," she finally sighed. "When I touch you...but I have to have my eyes closed...I see...memories, visions of a sort. Often of me but sometimes...sometimes not. Mycah, the butcher's boy, he was one of the first...and when we were staying at the inn, I ran my hand over the scars on your arm, and I saw how you got them. Saw...saw Arya in the background, and then a flash of her running into you and you...taking her. I...I don't know how else to describe it."

Sandor shook his head in disbelief. _Someone had to have told her about Dondarrion, about her sister._ The thought that she could see him like that...not only was it impossible, but the idea turned his stomach. He had worked too hard to build his walls, and though Sansa Stark had done a great deal toward wearing them down he wanted to believe that they still stood strong enough to outlast her. Because he knew that she could not always be his, and once she was lost to him he would need the protection of his scars, his anger, his wine and his name..._the Hound_.

_And the child?_ he thought, the mere idea of Sansa's pregnancy filling him with dread.

_The child will be heir to the North, and will never know who its father is._ For Sandor highly doubted that he would walk away from an encounter with Lady Catelyn-turned-Stoneheart once she discovered what had transpired between himself and her daughter.


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**BRIENNE**

She hadn't thought things could be worse than she'd imagined, but it seemed that they in fact _were_. And Brienne had certainly imagined some terrible situations, starting the very moment the Elder Brother admitted that he had sent Sandor Clegane to find Sansa Stark.

Surprisingly, Sansa wasn't quite what Brienne had expected. _"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft... the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper._" The words Lady Catelyn had spoken to her well over half a year ago now came back in a rush of remembrance, but so little about them seemed to fit this wan young woman who stood before Brienne now. Courteous, yes, and maybe a bit eager to please as well...why else would Sansa seem so willing to listen to her, to believe the things she said, to come with them? Hope, maybe, hope that her mother was well and truly alive, but then this could not be the girl who loved tales of knightly valor. Not consorting as she was with Sandor Clegane, ne the Hound, who was no knight and certainly had no valor if Sansa Stark truly was pregnant with his child.

_She does have Lady Catelyn's eyes_, Brienne noted, and though the brownish color coating most of Sansa's hair was wrong, the roots were definitely auburn. Lady Catelyn had been a beautiful woman, with lines in her face and a thicker figure caused by age and children, and Brienne supposed that Sansa would mayhaps someday be more than her mother ever was...but just now the girl was thin and pale and tired, the stress of her escape and her journey showing in every facet of her being.

As Sansa and Sandor argued - Brienne caught that he hadn't known about the child either, and there was something about his having been with Arya Stark as well - Jaime leaned toward her and gestured to their quarry, saying, "This cannot bode well for us, if we really are to return to this Lady Stoneheart with them in tow. Can it?"

Brienne's heart thudded in her chest. She owed Jaime the truth, she knew this, but if she told him, would he still come with them? Would he put Ser Hyle's life, Pod's life, _her_ life, above his own?

_He dove unarmed into a pit to save you from a bear_, she reminded herself. _He gave you Oathkeeper._

Something else squirmed inside of her, though. _Yes, he gave you Oathkeeper, and it is a cursed thing, made from a stolen ancestral sword, forged in greed and villainy by his cunning brute of a father. And then he remained safe and sound in King's Landing with Cersei and sent you to find the Stark girls. By yourself._

_He stayed in King's Landing with Cersei..._

_He sent you by yourself…_

Brienne was disgusted with herself, yet still she could not open her mouth and force out the truth. She, who had always prided herself on honor and honesty. "We can only hope that Lady Stoneheart will not hold us responsible for what has passed between Lady Sansa and Clegane," she said instead.

"And why wouldn't she?" Jaime asked with a bitter laugh. "Had we not been delayed on our original journey, Sansa would have still been locked away in the Red Keep when we arrived. We could have plucked her up and delivered her to Lady Catelyn safe and sound. Had we something to go on when she fled after Joffrey's death, the outcome would mayhaps have been a positive one then as well. But we lost our chance to find her in time, over and over and over again, and now we are left with this." He gestured toward Sansa and Sandor with his golden hand, and Brienne felt, if it was at all possible for her to do so, even _worse_ about deceiving him.

She sheathed her sword and approached Sansa and Sandor, her hands extended so that they would see she only wished to talk. "My lady," she began, focusing on Sansa, "in your condition, we truly should not delay. I offer you myself, my sword, as I once offered it to your mother. I beg that you let me fulfill my duty and return you safely to her. Once she has seen you and knows that you are alive and...well...I am sure that she will understand your need to find a safe place, a place where you can wait out winter so that when it is over - when this war is over - you may return to Winterfell and reclaim it for your family." Sandor was watching Brienne, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury, but he remained silent and for that she was grateful.

"Yes. Of course," Sansa Stark agreed, her eyes flicking back and forth between Sandor and Brienne. "We will come with you. Won't we?"

The question was directed toward Clegane, and though he seemed for a moment to be fighting some inner turmoil, he finally shrugged and replied in a defeated sort of tone, "As you wish, little bird." Sansa bristled at this, though Brienne knew not why. All she knew was that it was imperative for them to be on their way before either the girl or Clegane changed their minds.

"We should make our way back up into the Riverlands, then," she said. "It is some days' ride to our destination." _And I hope I may still easily find Lady Stoneheart and her men_, Brienne thought, but she kept this to herself. In truth, it was quite likely Lady Stoneheart's men would find them first.

* * *

><p>Soon they were on their way, though the brooding silence of their little group made Brienne uneasy. She was not usually the type to need constant conversation, but no matter how she considered the situation she could not see it with anything less than a horrible outcome for at least three members of their party. Brienne herself may live to be sent on to find Arya, but what of Jaime and Clegane? Brienne wanted to not care about their fates - or at least not about that of Clegane - but with Sansa in her current condition...<p>

"Jaime?" Brienne finally said.

"Yes, Brienne?" His response was one of weary indulgence.

"Would you please fetch Sansa to me? I feel as if...as if I should speak with her."

"As what, a woman?" Jaime snorted, but then he seemed immediately abashed at his automatic response. "I'll bring her to you," he muttered, turning Honor on his heels as he called out, "Lady Sansa, a word!" When he returned with the girl at his side, Brienne thanked him.

"I think you must speak to Clegane," she insisted. "I spoke the truth when I said that this is a dangerous thing that we do, and if you can convince him to watch his tongue when we reach Lady Stoneheart..."

"Keep Sandor Clegane from speaking his mind? I fear that will not be an easy task. It may, in fact, be impossible," Jaime grimaced. Brienne was shocked to hear something like a giggle escape from Sansa Stark just then, and she glanced at the girl with wide eyes before turning back to Jaime.

"All the same..." Brienne said, glancing back at Clegane. Jaime gave a stiff nod and turned Honor around again. Brienne waited several long moments, until she heard the sounds of a spirited conversation behind them - one that no doubt included the flinging of several insults - and then she finally nudged her mount closer to Sansa's ragged little pony and said, "My lady, may I speak frankly?"

Sansa looked up at her, and Brienne saw for a moment the woman inside of the girl. A woman who she had no doubt would be everything that her mother had been - and more. "You may," Sansa allowed, though her cheeks colored a bit. _She knows what I mean to ask_, Brienne thought with a sigh.

"Are you certain about...about the child?" Brienne forced herself to ask.

"As certain as I can be," the girl replied. "It is early to know, I think, but my moon blood..." She quieted again, the blush in her cheeks darkening before Brienne's eyes.

"And...it _is_ Clegane's?" The question had to be asked. Sansa Stark had been married off to Tyrion Lannister, after all; if the babe was his..._It does not bear thinking about. A Lannister child holding Winterfell..._The idea sickened Brienne, she who had never seen the home of the Starks, sickened her because of the hurt it would have caused Lady Catelyn...

"Of course it is Sandor's," Sansa said fiercely, the words _how dare you presume otherwise _hidden within her tone.

"I apologize, my lady, but you must understand...you were married to the Imp, after all...and you've been hidden away for months now..." Now it was Brienne's turn to flush red; she did not wish to alienate Sansa Stark - not now, when so much depended on her.

For quite some time Sansa remained silent, and when she did finally speak Brienne did not know whether to be frightened or relieved. "I do not quite understand what is happening," Sansa admitted quietly. "You say that my lady mother is alive, but then again not truly so, and this makes little and less sense to me. There is honestly in your eyes, but you are also not telling all that you know. You _were_ sent to find me, that much I believe - and when it comes time to face my mother, if that is what will transpire, I will assure her that you and the Kingslayer fulfilled your promise to the best of your abilities." She paused when she heard Brienne's small exhale of surprise, and then forced a smile. "Yes, both of you. For if it is vengeance my mother wants, there is someone else she should be chasing."


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANSA**

After Brienne's original questions about Sansa's condition, the warrior maid and the Kingslayer had largely left Sansa and Sandor alone. Normally this would have pleased her, but just now Sandor seemed intent on speaking with and touching her as little as possible. She'd heard him arguing with Jaime Lannister; their conversation had in fact lasted much longer than hers and Brienne's had done. When Jaime had returned to Brienne's side some time later, his jaw was set in obvious frustration - and when Sansa dropped back to ride beside Sandor, the fury emanating from him was nearly palpable. She wanted to ask what had transpired between him and the Kingslayer, but at the same time she didn't dare do so.

Now that they were four there was also no privacy to be had. At times she or Sandor or both of them seemed to forget this, but only when these moments coincided with Sandor forgetting _himself_ did any sort of physical intimacy occur. And then it was always short-lived - they would lie down beside each other at night and she would wake up tangled in his embrace in the morning, or he would lift her from her horse and brush a strand of hair from her face, perhaps allow his hands to linger a bit too long on her hips. Finally, a day came when Jaime wandered off to find food and Brienne disappeared to make water. It was the first time Sansa had been truly alone with Sandor since she'd told him of the baby, and she did not waste any time.

Sansa surprised him, boldly grasping at the back of his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers, teasing at his lips with the tip of her tongue until they parted and he clasped her close and kissed her and she felt him grow hard against her stomach.

She backed up, pulling him with her, until she was pressed against a tree and pulling at the laces on his breeches. He groaned when she reached in and grasped his erection, shaking his head against hers so that she knew he was fighting his desires. "Please," she whispered into his mouth, and with that single word he was reaching for her skirts, pushing them up and out of the way as he lifted her.

Sansa wrapped her legs around him, feeling the rough edges of the tree bark through her dress as he pushed into her. She buried her face into the hollow where his neck met his chest and moved against him, the pain of the hard trunk at her back combining with the feeling of being ungrounded, almost weightless, so that all there was was him and this and _them_ and it seemed as if no time at all before she felt the wonderfully familiar warmth spread through her and then suddenly implode. As she convulsed around his manhood with a surprisingly soft sigh Sandor's hands clenched around her waist, so hard that she knew she was like to bruise. He drove into her and spilled his seed with her name on his lips - _"Sansa..."_

Balanced as she was, Sansa was able to reach up and cup his face in her hands, planting kisses everywhere she could reach as she tried to hold back tears that seemed to well up in part from happiness and in part from some combination of exhaustion and fear.

They remained in this position for a moment too long, though - it was Brienne's shocked gasp and mumbled apology that finally broke their embrace, causing Sandor to growl and stalk off and leaving Sansa blushing and embarrassed as she straightened her skirts, the warm wet feel of his juices between her legs causing a new rush of desire to course through her. She had to walk by Brienne to return to their circle of bedrolls and packs, and as Sansa passed her the warrior maid began, "My lady, I -"

Sansa held up a hand to silence her. "Do not speak of it," she said, a tight, false smile on her lips. She headed for the horses, where Sandor was standing helplessly by Stranger, looking for all the world like he wanted to mount the destrier and ride off. She noted that he had already buckled his sword belt back around his waist. "You wouldn't...would you?" she inquired softly, gesturing to the horse, knowing that he would understand her meaning. His grey eyes met hers and the conflict in them nearly broke her heart.

"No," he finally said, "I suppose not, little bird."

She felt relief, then, but it wasn't enough. "Why do you refuse to be _happy_?" Sansa heard herself ask. She grabbed hold of his right hand and pressed it to her belly. "This is _ours_, Sandor. Mine, and _yours_. The heir to the North, remember? A hundred things, a _thousand_ things, could go wrong. I know this. But even if they do, what we have in this moment is more and better than anything I ever hoped for."

"Better even than your songs, little bird? Better than your dreams of heroic, honorable knights?" he replied, but she took heart in the fact that he did not pull his hand away – he actually looked down at it and she thought that maybe he even increased the pressure of it on her stomach.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Better than my songs because it is real and I am living it. And knight you may not be, but I believe I've said before that you are heroic and honorable." Sansa smiled and stepped closer, lifting her face, silently asking for a kiss and feeling her heart flutter when he bent to fulfill her unspoken request.

"I see the Lord and Lady are at it again," Jaime Lannister suddenly called out, and Sandor pulled back with a snarl just before his lips could touch hers. Sansa turned with a frustrated sigh, almost wishing that she could slap the Kingslayer's attitude out of him - but when she saw the look on his face her annoyance turned to concern. Before she could ask what had happened or what was wrong, though, Brienne noticed his demeanor as well.

"Jaime?" the warrior maid asked, her voice and body tense with the same concern that Sansa felt.

"Bodies," he said. "Hanging in the trees...the first one is not but a few hundred yards off, and has obviously been hanging there for quite some time...I thought nothing of it, at first, but the farther I went the more there were and some of them can't be more than a few days old at most. To be honest, I'm not sure we want to stay here tonight. If we leave now we can travel a few leagues farther at least, and -"

"No," Brienne interrupted, shocking Sansa with the force that she put behind that single word. Brienne's face seemed even more pale and drawn than it had been moments ago, but she was insistent when she continued, "It doesn't matter. The bodies, they...they mean that we are close. Especially...especially the newer ones."

"Seven hells," swore Sandor. He still had hold of Sansa's hand and he was gripping it so tightly that she could almost hear her knuckles cracking. "If you have led us into some sort of trap, wench, rest assured that I will slice you open from end to end. Maybe I'll even let the Kingslayer pick which end I should start with."

"It wasn't meant to be a trap for _you_, Clegane, but as I hear we may have some unfinished business I must say that I'm happy you are part of the package," someone spoke up from behind them. Sandor spun around, shoving Sansa behind him, but she craned her neck and saw three men on horses at the edge of the clearing. One of them was missing an eye, the second a man who may or may not be young and looked vaguely familiar, and the third - the one who had spoken - was a large man, nearly as big as Sandor himself, wearing a disgusting cloak that looked to have been yellow at one time – and also wearing a helm in the shape of a snarling hound's head.

"We have no 'unfinished business'," Sandor rasped. "I beat Dondarrion and his flaming sword fair and square. In fact, your _brotherhood_ stole my gold - and now you've stolen my helm. If anything, I'm owed something by you."

When the big man laughed the sound rattled inside the helm, its meanness echoing off the metal. "Lord Beric gave you a note promising repayment, and I took this helm from a dead man. Not that any of that matters just now. I suggest you ready yourselves; if we leave soon we may be able to return to m'lady before the moon is high in the sky."

Sansa glanced at Brienne; Jaime was looking at the ugly maid as well. The fearful look on Brienne's face did nothing to assuage Sansa's fears. "Brienne?" she asked. It seemed they had but two choices - for the men and the warrior maid to draw swords on these foul sell swords, if that's what they were, or for the four of them to obey the order to follow them to...their_ lady_? Could they mean her mother?

"He's right," Brienne admitted. "We need to go with them."

Sandor scoffed at Brienne and turned to Sansa, gripping her small shoulders with his large, strong hands. "I don't like this, little bird," he said, his voice strained.

"Nor do I," Sansa murmured, glancing around him at the big man wearing Sandor's old snarling dog helm. "But we've come this far..." Even as she said this, she was unsure - until the helmless man who still had both his eyes about him vaulted off his horse and stepped toward them.

"Lady Sansa?" the man cried, but he abandoned his advance when Sandor pulled his sword from its sheath in one swift, smooth movement.

"No further," Sandor warned, and though the man narrowed his eyes, he _did_ heed the warning.

Sansa stepped to one side, still standing slightly behind Sandor, and asked, "You know me?"

The man glanced at Sandor, then back at her. "Yes," he insisted. "And you know me. I am Harwin, son of Hullen. My father and I rode to King's Landing with Lord Eddard; later he sent me with Lord Beric to find the Mountain. And now I...serve...your mother."

_Hullen...Hullen...Winterfell's Master of Horse?_ Harwin had sounded unsure about the wording of that last bit, the part about her mother…but she did not think the rest of his claim was a lie. _And he does look familiar, somehow_... Sansa reached up and gently laid a hand on Sandor's arm. "This man knows me," she affirmed. "And Brienne says they are the ones we are looking for."

"That may be, little bird," he remarked. "But I know from experience that these men aren't to be trusted. And I'm not so sure the wench is trustworthy, either." He bent toward her, his gaze still focused on Harwin, and muttered, "We can still get out of this. Go to Maidenpool, find a ship, forget this buggering madness."

Sansa tightened her grip on Sandor's arm, as if to reassure both herself and him. "No," she sighed. "We must see this through."


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

_All of this has happened before, and all of it will happen again._

_No. Dondarrion is gone, the wench said as much. This time won't be the same._ Sandor nearly shuddered at the all-too-clear memory of Beric Dondarrion's flaming sword. But there would be no flaming sword this time – not with Lady Stoneheart. With her it would be a tree and a noose; that much was clear.

That bugger in Sandor's old helmet and the Northman who remembered Sansa had stripped Jaime, Brienne and Sandor of their swords while the one-eyed lout looked on; then they had been ordered to mount and off they all went, a group of seven now. It was twilight by the time they were on their way, the light dim and almost purple, but the bodies were there hanging from the trees and he saw them, every one of them. She saw them too, his little bird, but she set her face and stared straight ahead and did not flinch. _Ice,_ Sandor reminded himself. _She is made of ice. And if anyone can save us, fools that we are, it is _her_._

Jaime fucking Lannister had put that idea in Sandor's head. Days ago when they had turned around and headed back into the Riverlands to find Lady Stoneheart, the wench had insisted on speaking to Sansa and had sent the Kingslayer to speak to him. "I've been ordered to tell you to hold your tongue when we meet with Lady Catelyn. Stoneheart. Whichever she's called now," Jaime had said.

"Still taking orders from a woman, I see," Sandor had snarled in return. Jaime's face had darkened.

"And you aren't, Clegane?"

Sandor could have pulled his sword and lopped off the bastard's head just then, and he thought about doing it too. "_Don't _speak to me of her," he'd nearly shouted.

Jaime had known what Sandor meant. "I will do as you say if you do the same for me. Now...will you tell me how you found the Lady Sansa, when Brienne had been searching for quite some time without uncovering any trace of her?"

Sandor had snorted. "Your _Brienne_ was bumbling all over the place asking for a pretty red-haired highborn maid...and she had the Imp's squire in tow. I suppose I, on the other hand, asked the _right _questions...of the right people. Though I went to the Vale on a mere hunch and…luckily, I suppose…stumbled upon her in the valley below the Gates of the Moon. Unguarded."

"Unguarded? That is...lucky."

"I suppose," Sandor had repeated, shrugging. _If finding her had been luck, what was the rest of it?_

"And the other Stark girl? Arya? What of her? Brienne told me that you took her from Dondarrion and his men."

"Didn't take her. Not really. She tried to escape from them of her own accord, and I scooped her up. Tried to take her back to her mother and brother, but then they died. Tried to take her to her aunt in the Vale, but the mountain snows stopped us. We met with some of my brother's men in an inn. They wanted me to go to Gregor, I refused, we fought. One of the arses sliced open my leg and it got infected. The little wolf bitch left me to die after refusing the mercy I asked for. But she was...tough. Wild. A fighter. I'd not be surprised to find her still alive."

"One can only hope," was Jaime's droll response. "Thankfully we have the Lady Sansa, and something tells me she will be more adept at keeping us alive than her sister would be."

"Don't know about that. Arya Stark is pretty good with a dagger." Sandor had thought that saying this would amuse him, but when he pictured Arya stabbing the Tickler over and over again he suddenly thought about Sansa seeing that memory- as she had supposedly seen other recollections of his – and he merely felt uneasy.

"Well, if Arya Stark has her dagger Sansa Stark has her courtesy and her words. Something tells me that she will be of far more use to us when we meet with her...mother," Jaime had murmured.

Sansa rode beside Sandor now, close enough for him to reach out and touch her, to brush a hand across her shoulder if he wanted. _You do want_, he thought, remembering how yet again she had chipped away at his barriers until he had fucked her against a tree - and been caught doing so by that damnable wench.

After some time the men insisted on stopping to dismount and cover their heads with hoods. Sandor fought against it with his hands, pushing the one-eyed man away, while Sansa fought against it with her words, her voice like the crack of a whip when Harwin approached her. "How dare you?" she asked, and Sandor could tell that the words _you were a servant of Winterfell_ were on her lips, though she was intelligent enough to not speak them.

"It's necessary, m'lady," Harwin mumbled, and he truly did sound as if he regretted having to do it. With an icy glare at Harwin and a sorrowful look at Sandor, Sansa capitulated - but he refused to give in so easily and it eventually took all three of them to get the hood over his face. All the while Brienne was begging him to cooperate, but as Sansa said nothing he ignored the wench. Had he his sword he would have beat these false knights into the ground, and the three of them knew it too. Instead he put minimal effort into throwing them off, but only for the sake of his little bird.

_That's right, dog. Keep telling yourself that. _Your _little bird._

Truth be told, it was difficult to think that she was his, to _feel_ that she was his, when he was staring at the inside of a leather hood and being dragged off to face the buggering so-called Brotherhood without Banners again.

The night was more than half gone when they finally stopped. Lem - Sandor could tell it was him by the size of the hands that seized him - dragged Sandor from Stranger's back and shoved him roughly, forcing him to walk. Sandor couldn't see a damned thing and took slow steps, scuffing his feet along the ground so that he would not trip. They walked for some time, often downhill, taking several sharp turns. When they stopped he could feel cool air on his skin and smell smoke even through the hood. Someone tore the covering from his head and he blinked in the dim light, looking right and then left and finally catching sight of Sansa, being held just a few feet away by Harwin. Her eyes met his and they stared at each other for a few moments.

"I love you," she mouthed silently. He knew that he _should_ say the same, yet doing so still didn't feel right. _Not here. Not now._ He would be saying it because it was the _right_ thing to do, and not because he _wanted_ to say it.

_You're a fool, dog. A buggering fool._

"My lady," Brienne called out just then, and Sandor squinted through the smoke until he saw the trestle table tucked into a cleft in one of the cave walls. Beside it stood the red priest, fucking Thoros of Myr, and behind it..._That must be her_, he knew. Lady Catelyn before, Lady Stoneheart now, all cloaked in grey, her eyes two burning red pits glowing from inside her hood. "We have brought one of your daughters. Sansa, my lady, your daughter Sansa!"

Sandor felt that his heart was in his throat as the people around them murmured, obviously shocked, and Lady Stoneheart reached her hand to her throat and croaked. Sandor couldn't understand her and it appeared no one else could either; the red priest had to repeat what the ghoul had said. "My lady says that cannot be her daughter, for the Lady Sansa was sweet and fair with hair the color of fiery copper. This girl is strange and sad and her hair is like mud, dirty and false."

Just then Sansa ripped herself from Harwin's grasp, ran to the table and threw herself into a curtsy before it. "Mother, please. My hair is wrong, it has been dyed, and much has happened since we parted at Winterfell nigh on two years ago...but I _am _your daughter, your Sansa. Sandor and Brienne and...and Jaime...they have returned me to you..."

Lady Stoneheart rose from her seat; slowly, tediously. As she did so she pushed back her hood and unwound the scarf that covered most of her face, causing Sansa to gasp in something that seemed - to Sandor - very much like horror. The little bird cast her eyes at the floor as Lady Stoneheart approached her - _the same way she used to look away from you in King's Landing_, he couldn't help but think. The woman in gray faced Sansa, reached down and touched her shoulder, and Sandor saw the little bird fight not to recoil. Hand to throat, Lady Stoneheart croaked something that no one but the red priest seemed to understand.

"My lady would have you look at her," Thoros instructed Sansa, who took a deep breath and did as she was told. _Always the obedient little bird_. For a long moment the thing that had been Lady Catelyn stared into her daughter's eyes, those obviously Tully blue eyes, and when she finally spoke it was to say the little bird's name, still barely understandable - the recognition in the tone of her croak was all that gave it away.

"Mother," Sansa murmured in response. Sandor felt that he was witnessing something private, or at least something no Lannister dog should ever have been allowed to see.

The ghoul spoke, a long string of awful choked-out words whose meaning was again lost to Sandor. Thoros watched her intently and then repeated the speech. "My lady is...pleased that one of her daughters has been returned to her, though she knows that Sansa has suffered greatly and asks for an explanation as to why she was not found and returned to her mother before now. My lady also requests that the Lannister dog explain how he came to possess one daughter and lose the other." With this Thoros turned to Sandor, narrowing his eyes, the look in them clearly saying that he expected information on Arya Stark as well. All thoughts of the Kingslayer's warning to watch his tongue flew from Sandor then, but as he opened his mouth to curse at the red priest Sansa spoke again.

"If it please my lady mother, I would rather tell what has transpired. Sandor, the Warrior Maid Brienne, even Ser Jaime...they...they have all worked tirelessly to find and protect myself and -"

But Lady Stoneheart interrupted her daughter with more of her rasping, croaking, choking sounds, and when she was finished Thoros shook his head, declining Sansa's request. "My lady says that these fools must speak for themselves."

"_No_," Sansa replied vehemently, causing Lady Stoneheart to _hiss_ in displeasure. "I have heard what happens when those you interrogate displease you. I _will_ speak for them."

Silence descended over those inside the cavern, and for several long moments Sandor expected Lady Stoneheart to refuse. But finally the thing gave a curt nod, turning her back on the girl who had been her daughter and settling herself back behind the table. "Speak," Stoneheart rattled.

_The Kingslayer was well and truly right_, Sandor told himself again. Sansa Stark had had her songs and given them up, but now she had her words...and if anything was going to save himself and the wench and Jaime Lannister from Lady Stoneheart's vengeance, it would be the little bird's chirps.


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**JAIME**

He had come to this cave knowing that he would likely die. No matter that Brienne had tried to hide this fact from him; he'd seen the bodies in the trees, and he knew that they had nearly killed Brienne herself. Sansa Stark was his only hope, but until she included him in her list of saviors he had not known whether she would speak for him. He had now had faith that she would at least try to do so, though it was clear that this Lady Stoneheart did not care for the outspoken young woman that her pretty, obedient little daughter had become.

"Sandor will have to tell you the details of his time with Arya, but I can assure you that _she_ left _him_ and that while they were together he kept her safe," Sansa began. _She should not be calling him Sandor,_ Jaime realized when he saw Lady Stoneheart draw back at her daughter's familiarity with the former Lannister dog. But the damage had been done and Jaime could only hope that Sansa would not make too many slips like that.

"He helped me in King's Landing, mother. He never beat me, not as Joffrey's other Kingsguard men did. He tried to take me away from there, but I was young and frightened and though I did not refuse to go, neither did I agree...and he would not force me. He _did not_ force me. Instead it was Littlefinger who brought me away from there, and when Brienne visited the Quiet Isle and asked after me the Elder Brother went to Sandor and told him to leave and find me and keep me safe. The Elder Brother knew that Sandor regretted not doing more, not bringing me away from the Lannisters before they could force me into a marriage with the Imp. He knew that if anyone could find and keep me safe, it would be Sandor.

"And he did find me, mother. We were on our way to Maidenpool, to sail for the Free Cities where Cersei would hopefully not be able to find me, when Brienne and Ser Jaime happened upon us. Brienne had returned to the Quiet Isle, you see, and the Elder Brother admitted that Sandor had been sent for me...and she was concerned. She immediately sought out Ser Jaime and they made for Maidenpool on a mere hint. I knew that I could trust them" - here Sansa shot a pointed glance at Jaime - "_both_ of them. If I hadn't known as much Sandor would have cut them down and we would have fled Westeros and you may never have seen me again. But they told me that you sent them to find me and return me to you. They were delayed, Mother, and they should not be faulted for that. _Look at them._Surely they have suffered enough."

It was a heartfelt plea and Jaime knew that the girl could not have been more clear or concise. For whatever reason Sansa Stark was set on protecting even him, though they barely knew each other and though she hated his family with a passion. _Joffrey had her beaten..._ the thought was disgusting to him. Cersei had been queen but she had never fit the title; Sansa would not be queen and yet she was everything a ruler should be. _No wonder the Hound's allegiance is hers._

_No wonder he is in love with her._

Jaime envied Sandor Clegane that - not the love of Sansa Stark, exactly, but the love of a good, beautiful woman. Cersei's face flashed before his eyes then, the disgusted look she had given his handless arm when he mistakenly raised it to touch her in the royal sept. _You will not think of that now, _he insisted. Jaime forced himself to look at Brienne, Brienne with her ugly face and her beautiful soul, and then at Sansa, who was truth be told as pretty as Cersei had ever been yet had the strength of character that he had learned his twin sorely lacked.

Lady Stoneheart had spoken again and the red priest was translating. "I apologize, Lady Sansa, but your mother does not agree that you could be safe with the Hound. As such, you will remain here with us - as will he, to explain what part he had in your sister Arya's disappearance. As for the Lady Brienne - she has fulfilled at least part of what my lady asked of her and will be sent with her Ser Hyle and her squire to seek out your sister. The Kingslayer, on the other hand, has much to answer for...and I do not think my lady will care for his excuses."

At the mention of himself Jaime couldn't help but step forward. He gave a mocking bow, all the while remembering how he'd told Clegane to watch his mouth and knowing that he was about to ignore his own advice. "If it please my lady, I'd prefer to get this over with. I assume you will charge me with breaking my oath, knowing that I've done so before. Truth be told I'm not sure you ever expected me to keep it in the first place. I could stand here and plead my case. I could tell you that the Lady Brienne and I were captured by Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions. That they chopped off my sword hand" - here he raised his stump and allowed the onlookers to titter amongst themselves for a few moments before continuing - "and that I was 'saved' by your false friend Lord Bolton, who released me to, shall we say, continue my quest.

"But by the time I reached King's Landing, Joffrey was dead. Poisoned at his own wedding feast, it was said, by my brother Tyrion and his wife - the Lady Sansa here, the very person I'd been sent to collect. Only Tyrion was rotting in a cell when I arrived and Sansa Stark had disappeared. Some say she turned into a wolf and ran from the Red Keep, but of course she was merely spirited away. By Petyr Baelish, in fact, as I found out when we met with Sansa near Maidenpool some days ago. Petyr Baelish was a friend of yours, Lady Catelyn...was he not?" Jaime could not keep the knowing little grin from his face, remembering how Cersei had told him of Baelish's betrayal of Eddard Stark, remembering Littlefinger's own boasts that he had taken Catelyn Tully's maidenhead. _If I am going to die, I will do it on my feet and with a smile on my face_, he told himself.

More rasps and croaks from Stoneheart, which Thoros of Myr dutifully repeated. "My lady says that yes, Petyr Baelish was a friend, and you never were."

"Ah. Well, my lady may care to know that while I may not have done the best job of fulfilling my oath to her - the oath I was forced to make at sword point, I might add - I did the best I could with what I was given. Here I am, after all, and there is one of your daughters. On the other hand, your so-called 'friend' Littlefinger promised to help your husband gain the service of the goldcloaks when Robert died. In order to overthrow Joffrey and my sister, of course," he clarified. "Unfortunately for honorable old Ned Stark, Petyr Baelish was still smarting over the business with _you_, my lady. So instead of helping your husband, Littlefinger betrayed him to Cersei and even held a dagger to his throat that day in the throne room."

Jaime almost didn't know where this story was coming from, except that maybe he just wanted to postpone the inevitable, or to prove that no matter how many people she hanged Lady Stoneheart would probably never be rid of those she'd deemed her enemies. Or never even understand how many she had, how many people she'd placed trust in who did not deserve her confidence at all. Therefore, even he was surprised when Sansa Stark picked up his story and fairly _ran_ with it.

"You see, mother? While you kill so many who had nothing to do with the Red Wedding, who likely did nothing other than fight on the wrong side when they were _ordered_ to do so, men like Littlefinger run free and continue to wreak havoc. He killed your sister, my Aunt Lysa. I was there when he did it. He married her for the Vale, pushed her through the Moon Door, and is likely still attempting to slowly poison poor Sweetrobin. He saved me from King's Landing, yes, but he did it for his own gain and...if you'd seen the way he looked at me, if you'd been there when he forced his kisses on me..."

Here Sansa paused, shuddering and wrapping her arms around herself for a moment as if to stave off the memories. "If you want vengeance, mother, kill the Freys and the Boltons who killed Robb and his men, and kill Petyr Baelish," she whispered, but her voice grew stronger when she continued, "Send Sandor and I to find Arya and let Brienne and Ser Jaime return...to their homes, I suppose. Just...let us _go_. Let us _be_."

Again Jaime was reminded of how he'd told Clegane that they needed to put their trust in Sansa Stark. _A good decision for once, Kingslayer_, he thought, and he felt himself smile involuntarily.


	17. Chapter 17

_Ugh. I hate that I have been *so* lax in updating this fic. I just knew that it was coming to an end (though this isn't quite it yet! I'm guessing it will be an absolute max of 21 chapters though) and on top of that I got so busy with the sanXsan commentfic meme (and crappy real life situations...sigh) that it fell by the wayside._

_I'm...not exactly psyched about how this chapter/this part of the storyline turned out. But I have to be honest...this was a baby fic, the first ASOIAF fic I ever started, period (so of course the first SanSan fic as well), and I never really knew back then where I wanted it to go. But I hope you guys are still enjoying it anyway :) :) :)_

**DISCLAIMER: **Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.

* * *

><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

It nearly broke her heart, having to beg this...this _thing_ that had once been her mother...to let them go, leave them be. Unfortunately, as she did so Sansa must have unconsciously placed a protective hand over her tummy - for suddenly Lady Stoneheart stood again. It was a ponderous movement, but in the work of a moment Thoros of Myr was there by the corpse-woman's side, helping her – _it_ - around the table, helping it approach Sansa.

When Lady Stoneheart spoke Sansa still couldn't understand the words, but the rise of anger in Stoneheart's tone was more than obvious. Sansa's heart caught in her throat and she felt suddenly sick as the woman in gray approached her and yanked Sansa's hand away from her stomach. Lady Stoneheart's touch was cold, clammy, otherwordly, and Sansa felt bile rising in the back of her throat.

This time when the dead thing spoke, Sansa understood that it was asking, _"Why?"_

"Why?" Sansa repeated stupidly.

This time Lady Stoneheart's response was again one of garbled words that Sansa had to look to Thoros to translate. "My lady wants to know why you touch yourself there. Like that." The man was clearly confused, but in that moment Sansa knew that this shade of her mother Catelyn somehow knew that something was different about her daughter. _Its daughter._

"I...I...I'm hungry," Sansa replied, and it was only half a lie. "My tummy pains me, when I'm hungry..." she finished lamely.

Lady Stoneheart leaned toward her then, and its breath was cold and ripe with the smell of rot and death when it spoke to her. "I was a mother five times," Stoneheart hissed. "Do not lie to me."

More than anything Sansa wanted to look to Sandor for help, but she knew that in doing so she would likely give them away. And then what would this thing do - or order its men to do, more like? She'd hoped...she was not showing, yet...oh _why _had she touched her stomach? How could one small gesture...

"Doubtless you knew that your daughter was wed, my lady," Brienne suddenly said. Again Sansa had to stop herself from whipping her head around to look, this time at the warrior maid. Lady Stoneheart made a sound low in her throat that sounded much like a growl.

"Yes," Thoros replied warily. "We'd heard. To the Imp, right?" He directed his question to Sansa, and she forced herself to nod. Tyrion had been kind to her, in a way, but if the corpse-woman would assume...would _believe_...

If Jaime Lannister would keep his mouth shut...

"You have a lion inside you," Stoneheart croaked, taking a step back.

"No," Sansa forced herself to say. "A wolf...mother." _And a dog._

A flurry of choking, hissing sounds arose from Lady Stoneheart, and again Sansa needed Thoros. "You ask her to spare the Kingslayer, and then she finds that you are pregnant by his brother the Imp? You have grown more foolish than she ever could have expected."

Tears pricked at the corners of Sansa's eyes. "I did as I was trained to do, mother. I did what I had to do, to survive. I remembered my courtesies. I acted the _lady_. And here I am, safe and healthy and away from those who would do me harm - thanks to Ser Jaime and Brienne and Sandor. Tyrion disappeared from the black cells; he may not even be alive. And he...he only did what he was told to do, what he _had_ to do, same as me.

I said it before and I will say it again - if it is vengeance you seek, go after Littlefinger. Go after Cersei. _Go after the Freys and the Boltons. _Order Ser Jaime and Brienne to find Arya, send all of us to find Arya, just...just..._release_ us. I will not be safe here, you know it. I need to leave the Riverlands, perhaps I should even leave Westeros. But I will not go from this place unless all three of my companions go with me."

There was nothing else for Sansa to say or do. She could feel Lady Stoneheart's burning gaze and could only hope that it could not see through her. Several long moments passed, and finally the corpse-woman spoke again, spoke for quite some time, and Thoros repeated her words for all to hear.

"My lady says that you are no daughter of hers - you are not the girl that she raised. Taking up with dogs and lions and oath breakers...carrying the child of a monster...you are not the sweet girl who left Winterfell years ago.

"But you may go," Thoros continued. "She releases you and hopes to never see you again, to never behold your get. Search for Arya, if you will, but if we ever again capture the Kingslayer or Brienne the Oath Breaker, and they have not found your sister or have allowed any harm to befall you, there will be no trial, no words at all. Their lives will immediately be forfeit, and we will hunt down all those they love. Fathers, brothers, _sisters_, children, friends. _All._Go from this place, now, this moment, before she changes her mind."

Sansa was frozen on the spot and it was only the heavy touch of Sandor's large hand on her shoulder that brought her back to the present. "Little bird," he murmured, and she knew that it was past time for them to leave. With one last long, sad look at Lady Stoneheart - the evil, vengeful thing that her wonderful lady mother had become - Sansa allowed Sandor to guide her toward the tunnel that would lead them from the cavern and back out to the Riverlands above. Brienne and Jaime followed hastily, though the latter was casting looks like daggers at both the Warrior Maid and Sansa herself. _You cannot blame him_. _You told a grievous lie about his brother back there, and if Tyrion still lives and ever shows himself in Westeros, Lady Stoneheart and her men will find him...and they will kill him._

And better him than Sandor, or your child, or you,

Sansa told herself, though the thought didn't make her feel any better.

Thoros and Harwin escorted them back up the tunnel, but insisted on stopping them just as they reached the spot where the gray of early morning began to light their way. Thoros looked troubled. "You are lucky, my lady, as are your companions. This is the first time she has shown any sort of mercy, really...though I think we were near as surprised when she let Brienne here go. Perhaps there are still soft spots in her heart for those she loved before..."

Sansa shook her head sadly and found herself reaching out, taking the red priest's hand in hers. "No," she whispered sadly. "She is nothing like the woman my mother was. The _lady_ my mother was. My lord...I am sorry to say this, truly I am, but this thing that you call 'your lady' is like to cause nothing but trouble for you. I am Lady Catelyn's daughter, beloved by her when she was alive...yet you saw how she treated me just now..."

"We have nowhere else to go, Lady Sansa," Harwin mumbled. Thoros cast a dark look his way, but Harwin avoided the other man's gaze.

"You are always welcome to be a part of helping me return to Winterfell," Sansa promised, smiling at Harwin, who was of the North, of _Winterfell_. But Harwin looked away from her, as well.

"Lady Sansa..." Thoros began, eying her and Harwin in turn, "I suggest that you get as far away from here as you can, and never return."

"I _will _return," Sansa replied fiercely. "Even if Arya is alive, even if we find her, I am still the heir to Winterfell...and I will take what is mine, whether I have to do it with my own courtesy or with the swords of those loyal to me."  
><em><br>_A long moment of silence passed, during which Thoros stared curiously at Sansa, glancing from her to Sandor, to Brienne, to Jaime, and back again. "I believe you shall, my lady," he finally said, just before gently lowering a hood over her head.

And then she was on horseback again and they were plodding away from Lady Stoneheart's lair. With the hood blocking out the rising sun, Sansa began to realize how utterly exhausted she was. She'd not slept for an entire day and night, and she _was_ hungry...

Next thing she knew, there was a minor ruckus, raised voices arguing about who would help her from the saddle – but when that finally happened she could tell that it was Sandor who lifted her down and pulled the hood from her head. For some time they all started at each other in silence, and then finally Thoros spoke.

"Will you search out your sister Arya?" he asked.

"We will do our best," Sansa promised. She turned to Sandor. "Is there _anything_ you remember from your time with her? Anything that...stood out, anything you didn't understand?"

Sandor shrugged. "She was angry," he admitted. "I know angry, little bird." He paused, and Sansa could tell that he was thinking, trying to recall…finally he rubbed a hand over his mouth and spoke again.

"I suppose...she did this thing...with names? When she thought that I couldn't hear her. So many of them...my brother" - he scoffed at this - "Queen Cersei. Joffrey. Other names as well...sometimes even mine." He snorted. "She always ended the list with some words I didn't know. Valor something...a word that sounded...like death, maybe. At least that's what I assumed, from the way she said the name and the way she pronounced the word..." He spread his hands almost in supplication and Sansa took hold of them, willing him to understand that she was not upset at his lack of memory.

"_Valar morghulis_," Thoros whispered, and they all turned to him.

"That sounds about right," Sandor mused.

"It's a Braavosi saying," the red priest explained. "Not common at all in Westeros...it is a small chance, to be sure, but if you can find the place in Braavos where _valar morghulis _originated..."

"We have to start somewhere," Sansa admitted. Thoros gave a brusque nod.

"We must return to our lady. I do suggest that you find your way out of the Riverlands." Both he and Harwin gave her sad looks as they bid her farewell, and looked back over their shoulders several times as they rode away.

"I don't trust them," Sandor growled. Sansa leaned into him and buried her face in his chest, feeling him raise a hand and tangle it in her tresses, holding her against himself.

"Neither do I, but then, I'm not sure I can trust any of you, either," Jaime replied warily.

"Jaime, I...I'm sorry for that, truly...I could see no other way, we could not allow them to know that Sandor is the child's father...they would have..."

"I know what they would have done," Jaime snapped. "And now if they ever find my brother they will do it to him instead."

"No sad loss," snorted Sandor. Sansa pulled away from him and lightly punched his chest

"Stop," she ordered. "All of you." Her three companions looked at her; Brienne concerned, Jaime angry, Sandor's face blank, though the corner of his mouth was twitching as it was wont to do. "We must leave this place. _Now._ I trust those men and that...that..._thing_...no more than you do. Let us go to Maidenpool - surely we can find a ship that leaves for Braavos soon."

"How do you know that damned red priest was telling the truth - about those words, about Braavos?" Sandor asked.

"I don't," she sighed. "But we have no other information, and we must find somewhere safer than _here_."

"I've never wanted to go to Braavos," Brienne murmured sadly.

"Nor have I, really," Sansa agreed. "And especially not now." Again her hand reached up almost of its own accord, cupping over her tummy protectively. "But I fear that it is our only decent choice."


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER:****Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANDOR**

In a way, the wench's idea to plant the blame for Sansa's pregnancy on the Imp amused Sandor...but at the same time it didn't sit well with him. He'd not expected such a lie from Brienne...she may not have his own penchant for brutal honesty, but she seemed overly virtuous nonetheless. So for her to be so quick about that lie, and in front of the Imp's big kingslaying brother...

_You're being ridiculous_, he told himself. The wench's lie had likely saved him from becoming yet another one of this Lady Stoneheart's tree ornaments.

_Only now you're expected to hie off to Braavos and go looking for the little wolf-bitch._ _And the little bird with a baby in her belly..._

A baby. _Your baby._

They may have escaped from Stoneheart, but there was still _this _to deal with...this, and a good sennight's travel or more to get back to Maidenpool. With the damned wench and the Kingslayer constantly present, never leaving them alone...

Sandor couldn't believe that he was thinking about _that _just now, but the memory was there, unbidden, so fresh in his mind - Sansa wrapping her hands around his neck, kissing him, pulling him with her until her back was against the tree and he was fucking her out in the open again, like she was some sort of whore and not the most beautiful maid he'd ever laid eyes on, the woman carrying his child, the girl he loved.

_Aye, there it is. The truth of the matter._ Sandor turned and glanced at the little bird - _his _little bird. She was pale with what he could only assume was stress, exhaustion, or both, and obviously fighting to keep her seat on her horse. They could not rest now, he knew. They had to get as far as possible from Lady Stoneheart and her men. "Stop," he commanded.

"We shouldn't..." Brienne said nervously. Sandor jerked his head toward Sansa, who had begun to nod off and apparently hadn't even heard his order.

"Just for a moment," he growled. He bid Stranger to halt, leapt down and grabbed her horse's reins. Sansa blinked blearily.

"Wh...what's wrong?" she mumbled.

"You're dead tired, little bird," he said, more gently than he was wont to do, as he pulled her from the saddle and carried her in his arms like a babe, wrapping one hand in her little mountain-palfrey's reins and leading the horse to Brienne. He mounted Stranger again and settled Sansa in front of him, wrapping his arms about her protectively before announcing, "Let's go."

They rode, and rode, and rode, that day. It had been just after dawn when they left Stoneheart's caves, and they did not stop until it was so dark that they had no choice _but_ to do so. Silence reigned; even when Sansa attempted to start a conversation Brienne would merely mumble and bow her ugly head, while Jaime remained tight-lipped and angry. _Such an agreeable bunch of traveling companions_, Sandor mused with a snort.

They lit no fire, just to be safe, and it was cold - but Sandor laid out first his own bedroll, and then Sansa's just next to it. He felt strangely _defeated_, somehow, but when she lay down and he lay beside her, wrapping his arms around _his_ little bird and holding her close...he could not deny that despite the danger of their situation, this at least was something like _pleasant._

Though she had dozed some throughout the day, Sansa fell asleep immediately and he soon followed suit...and woke the next morning with his hand cupped protectively over her stomach and his erection pulsing almost painfully as she nestled closer to him with a sleepy sigh. Sandor groaned against the back of her neck, groaned for how wrong this should be, groaned for his want of her, his _need_ of her.

"Sandor?" she murmured sleepily.

"What?" he mouthed, his lips brushing her ear lobe and bringing forth another pretty sigh. Sansa reached around and took his hand in hers, guiding it to her thigh and helping him bunch her skirts in his hand. Sandor knew what she wanted and he pulled the layers of rough fabric up, grabbing hurriedly for the laces of his breeches and fairly tearing them open before gently parting her legs with his hand and moaning almost _softly_ when he found her wet and waiting for him to take her.

_You've just had another narrow brush with death, dog...and she _wants_ this..._

Convincing himself wasn't difficult. Sandor pushed between Sansa's legs and felt his cock slide easily into her slick cunt. She gasped in what could only be pleasure, but knowing that the wench and the Kingslayer were sleeping - _hopefully_ - nearby, Sandor reached up, pinning the little bird's arms between his arm and her chest and covering her mouth with his hand. "No chirping," he rasped, and as he rocked his hips forward, moving himself deeper inside her, he felt her nip at the palm of his hand and couldn't help but grin into her sweet-smelling hair. "None of that, either." Sandor picked up the speed of his thrusts, wondering as always at how tightly she enveloped him. _Is _this_ why you love her, dog? It's a fool of a man who loves a woman for the thing between her legs..._

"Are...are you all right, my love?" the little bird asked, and Sandor realized that he'd stopped moving, that his hand had fallen away from her mouth.

_My love._

"I thought I told you to be quiet," he growled in response, driving into her again as he cupped one perfect teat in his hand and rolled her hard little nipple between thumb and forefinger, causing her to press her back against him, a soft moan escaping from her as she convulsed around his cock, shuddering as she peaked. That one small sound, the clench of her, left him near pulsing with desire and with just one more stroke he spilled his seed, clutching at his little bird as he finished, hating himself for being so weak over her, hating _her_ for making him feel this way.

* * *

><p>Not surprisingly, the wench and the Kingslayer had heard them that first morning - though neither of them said anything of it, Brienne flushed red every time she had to speak to him, and Jaime watched him with an expression that seemed to be full of pity, envy, and anger all at once. <em>Well, you did keep your mouth shut and let the women condemn his brother...<em>

Their second day of riding passed, then their third, and their fourth. Even Sansa remained quiet most of the time now; Sandor knew that she was tired of riding and often ill and simply didn't have the energy to bother attempting to force conversations. Still he caught her gazing at him, though; caught her cupping her stomach and smiling when she didn't know he was looking. Sandor wondered if Brienne and Jaime would truly insist on coming to Braavos with them...

_We don't need either one of them,_ Sandor knew. They had gotten along just fine by themselves, he and Sansa Stark. _Bugger Jaime Lannister and bugger the Imp, anyway. One fucked his sister and produced that inbred little shit who tortured my little bird; the other...fucking wildfire and making me feel a coward, marrying my little bird against her will, the things that happened to that first wife of his._..

He remembered that, oh yes - though he'd kept silent about it for years, the knowledge of it had left him seething inside whenever the Imp came 'round. And then Sansa had been of an age with that little whore of Tyrion Lannister's when she'd been forced to wed him - when Sandor had heard the news he'd had half a mind to return to King's Landing and burn the little fucker for taking Sansa Stark's dreams...and her maidenhead.

Only the Imp hadn't taken the latter; Sandor himself had done that. Taken her maidenhead, and put a baby in her belly to boot. Yet she still smiled sweet smiles at him, and her words were not the highborns' empty courtesies that he hated so much. She told him she loved him, she'd convinced him to play at man and wife. Yet...she'd acted the little leader and saved not just his arse, but the wench and the Kingslayer as well, neither of whom she had any reason to care about...

Had he ever really considered what she would become? He'd left her in King's Landing and assumed that her head would always be filled with songs and stories, that she'd never be able to appreciate all he'd tried to do for her. Now it seemed that he'd had one effect on her, and Littlefinger another, and Sandor suddenly wasn't sure if he could handle the woman his little bird had become. _Not that you deserve her anyway, dog...and you've no choice but to handle her. Her, and this babe. And you're to go searching for her little she-wolf sister as well...perhaps with the wench and the Kingslayer in tow. And what's more amusing than that, really?_


	19. Chapter 19

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**BRIENNE**

What one thing was worse than another, now? It seemed there was no end to the damage she could do, though she'd never done more than she _had _to.

But it had been that way all of Brienne's life. A disappointment to her mother and father, the ugly daughter who should have been a son. She hadn't been able to save Renly, it was partly her fault that Jaime had lost his sword hand, and by the time she'd found Sansa Stark Lady Catelyn was dead and the girl was pregnant by the monster Sandor Clegane.

_Is he a monster, though?_ Lady Sansa seemed..._fond_...of him. And with her, the Hound was always gentle. He called her "little bird", a strangely endearing term for such a man to use, and when Brienne had discovered them against the tree, when she'd heard them in their bedrolls this very morning...

Brienne shook her head, trying to clear it. Everything seemed to be in a jumble these past few days - Jaime was neither kind to her, nor was he ill-tempered. He simply...ignored her. And though Brienne could tell that Lady Sansa had tried to converse with them, had even tried to get Sandor Clegane to do so as well, these attempts had failed.

_It is my own fault_, Brienne thought sadly. Perhaps once Sansa had been as Lady Catelyn described, full of dreams and hope, in love with songs and stories...but now the girl was a woman grown, full of maturity and a child of her own; in love with _the Hound_, of all people. And Brienne herself...she recalled telling Lady Sansa's mother once that winter would never come for people like herself, like Renly, like Loras and all the others who feasted and fought in the melee at Bitterbridge. But Renly died near Storm's End, slain by a demon-shadow, and for this Loras Tyrell had murdered his brothers-in-arms and come for Brienne herself...and then Lady Catelyn had lost two of her three sons and later been brutally killed by those who'd once called themselves her allies.

Winter had come for _them_, for all of them, and though Brienne herself had fought against it she knew that winter had come for her now, as well.

* * *

><p>The closer they got to Maidenpool, the worse Brienne felt. Jaime still brooded, Lady Sansa and Sandor Clegane still only had eyes for each other, and with every hour that they rode they were closer to Randyll Tarly. <em>He will know me. He will know Jaime. And the girl...<em> The roots of Sansa's hair were quite red, now. A beautiful maid of what, four-and-ten? With auburn hair that had obviously once been hidden by dye, traveling with Ser Jaime Lannister and the Maid of Tarth and the Hound...Randyll Tarly was an awful man, crude in a way only an arrogant lord can be, but he was not stupid. _And he has always despised me, despised what I am._

Thankfully Jaime had a helm, as did she. He was in the least amount of danger - even if he was recognized, noticed, what would they do but ask him where he had been these past weeks? "You need to lend your helm to Clegane," Brienne told him. "He and I must not be recognized. You are safe, and Lady Sansa...well, she will have to do with hiding her hair under the hood of her cloak."

"Weak disguises," Jaime snorted.

"Perhaps," she sighed, "but they are all we have. We'll take the first ship we can find passage on; we must not linger..."

"Of course we mustn't," he snapped, his jaw set in a rigid line.

"_You_ may stay, you know," Brienne offered, thinking that must be what Jaime wanted to hear. "Return to King's Landing, or to Casterly Rock. Surely Lord Tarly will give you an honor guard to see you safely to one of those places, and Stoneheart and her ragged band will not be able to reach you there."

"I do not run from danger, Brienne," he replied fiercely. "And the three of you alone could never find the other Stark girl. You do not have the cunning, Clegane does not have the personal skills, and Lady Sansa has enough on her plate with that pup in her belly. It's Maidenpool and a ship and Braavos for all of us, even me, whether I like it or no."

Forced to swing wide around Saltpans, the journey was taking longer than any of them expected or wanted it to. The land felt eerie and empty and the cold winds grew fiercer every day, yet still they trudged on. Brienne began to despair of their reaching Maidenpool in time to catch a ship, before the Narrow Sea became too rough and left them trapped in Westeros, the Riverlands and Stoneheart at their backs, King's Landing and Cersei Lannister to the South, the Boltons and the Freys to the North...

"You look worried, Brienne." Lady Sansa's voice was weary, yet she seemed happy enough. _Would that I could feel something like happiness just now._

"Autumn is wearing thin, my lady, and many ships do not sail this late in the season."

"And for good reason," Sansa Stark nodded. "But I think that we have a bit more time. It's as if..." she paused for a long moment, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled. "As if I can feel it in my bones. And we will reach Maidenpool on the morrow, Sandor says."

Brienne still could not bring herself to well and truly converse with Sansa. Certainly not about Sandor, and though Brienne herself was not very good at reading people, it was obvious that he was all Sansa Stark wished to talk about. _I am not a lady-in-waiting, I never have been. I do not know how to speak of these things._Instead she forced an awkward smile and looked away, assuming that the girl would remember her courtesies as always and move along.

But it was not so. "Brienne, if I may...do you not think you should talk to Ser Jaime? I believe that he trusts and cares for you...in his own way. We did what we had to do back there, all of us. Even he knew better than to call you a liar, to attempt to clear his brother's name...I feel that if you just speak with him about what happened...what you said...why you said it...spur of the moment thinking..."

"My lady, I...I am not so eloquent as you. I am sure it would do more harm than good for me to discuss the lie that I told to Lady Stoneheart with Ser Jaime." Brienne flushed red as she spoke, and felt even worse when she saw the pity plain as day on Sansa Stark's face.

"I would gladly approach him for you," Lady Sansa sighed, "but it is not me with whom he wishes to speak."

Brienne couldn't help but ask, "Truly? You...you believe that he _wants _to talk to me?"

"He has not said as much," admitted Sansa, "but I have learned a bit about men these past weeks, and I must tell you that often nothing will get done unless we women press for it." With that she gently pressed her heels into her shaggy little horse and trotted back to Sandor Clegane's side, leaving Brienne feeling confused and hopeful and nervous all at once.

_She is right. I will speak to him, and soon,_ Brienne decided...but if they were likely to arrive in Maidenpool the very next day, soon meant that evening, and by her luck Jaime was assigned first watch by none other than Sandor. Brienne knew that Sansa must have had a hand in this and couldn't help but grimace to herself as the girl tucked herself in next to Clegane and left Brienne and Jaime awake and as alone as they were like to be. After laying out her bedroll, taking as much time as she possibly could, Brienne finally knew that she had to face the issue at hand.

"Jaime," she said softly as she approached him at the edge of the clearing where they had made camp. He was leaning against a tree with his hand - _the wrong hand, his only hand, _Brienne noted sadly - on the hilt of his sword, and he turned languidly at the sound of her voice.

"Brienne," he replied carefully.

"I...I thought we could speak. I know you're upset with me...I wish...I hope...that you would understand why..."

He made a gruff little growling sound low in his throat. "So she approached you as well."

_He must mean Lady Sansa. _Brienne nodded and chewed on her lip, but before she could say anything else Jaime heaved a sigh. "I know why. I don't like it, but I know why. And I didn't call your bluff because I knew why."

She couldn't hide her relief, then, but when she reached out to touch him he twitched away from her, and she pulled her hand back, quickly. "I'm sorry."

"It's not that," he mumbled. "Not really. Or...not all. The two of them..." He glanced over his shoulder, toward where Sandor Clegane lay wrapped around Sansa Stark. In the quiet of the wood, Brienne could hear the Hound's rumbling snores. Jaime shrugged. "They have something, in case you've not noticed. More than something. _All._ And I..." He gestured helplessly, and Brienne couldn't help but focus on the stump where his sword hand should be. Yet she knew that wasn't the only thing he spoke of, knew that he saw the way Sansa looked at Clegane, the way she touched him. Likely he'd heard them making love, and heard that word spill from Sansa's mouth more than once, as Brienne herself had.

"I know," Brienne murmured sadly, and this time when she reached for his hand and took it in hers, he did not pull away.


	20. Chapter 20

**DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.**

**SANSA**

Sandor was right; they arrived at the outskirts of Maidenpool the very next day. He donned Jaime's helm, Brienne pulled on her own, and Sansa carefully wrapped her cloak about her head as they rode into the port. The docks were busy and when Jaime inquired quietly about sailing to Braavos, they were pointed to a shipping cog. It was a small, sturdy thing, but they were told that while passage was available for the four of them, their mounts would have to stay behind.

"Settle yourselves in the cabins," Jaime ordered. "I'll bring the horses to Lord Mooton's tower and order them to be kept and kept well. Perhaps they will still be here when we return."

_If we return_, Sansa thought sadly, while Sandor said, "Small chance," and said a quiet, gentle goodbye to his temperamental destrier. _He loves that horse more than he loves me, I believe._She didn't think that was quite the truth, but it made her feel worse all the same.

"Will he come back?" Brienne murmured as they watched Ser Jaime lead the horses away. Sansa laid her hand on the other woman's large, brutish arm and gave her a small smile.

"He will. Come, we should go below."

The captain of the ship showed them their cabins - one each for Brienne and Jaime, and a shared room for herself and Sandor. When booking their passage they had continued their story of being husband and wife - at least that was what Ser Jaime had called it, _their story_. He was uncomfortable around her and Sandor, Sansa knew, but there was nothing to be done for it now. The four of them were to continue together, come what may.

Sansa remembered her last sea voyage aboard the _Merling King_ and wondered if this one would be quite as bad. Her tummy still bothered her many a morning, but not as much as it had at first. "We set sail at first light," the captain informed them before leaving she and Sandor alone. Immediately he pushed the door shut behind them and dropped the bar in place.

"That will come in handy," he rasped as he took her in his arms and covered her mouth with his.

* * *

><p>Their leave-taking of Westeros was much easier than any of them could have hoped. Jaime returned several hours later with news that Randyll Tarly had abandoned Maidenpool and left behind only a small garrison to guard Lord Mooton in his tower. None of Tarly's men seemed to know that Jaime Lannister had gone missing at all, and he'd left them with several gold dragons in hand and not a little fear in their eyes after swearing to run them through if anything happened to the horses. "I told them that if any of our mounts were lost or sold or injured while we were away, I'd run them through as I did Aerys and take their families to Casterly Rock as prisoners," Jaime laughed.<p>

When Sansa awoke the next morning, the cog was already rocking on the waves of the Narrow Sea and the shore was no more than a blurry shadow on the distant horizon behind them. She returned to the cabin soon after she bid a silent goodbye to a place that had not felt like any sort of _home _in quite some time. Sandor was close on her heels and again barred them inside while she slipped out of her plain dress and sat carefully on their small bed, clothed only in a thin shift.

"Do you...are you..." he gestured toward her stomach, and Sansa caught a glimpse of concern in his eyes.

"I'm all right," she confirmed with a smile. She was tired, to be sure, and the rocking was not the most pleasant sensation just now, but for the first time in as long as she could remember, Sansa was almost looking forward to the days, weeks, months ahead. She knew, somehow, that they would reach Braavos safely. She would grow great with child - _his_ child - and they would find Arya. Mayhaps not soon, but they would find her. Brienne had mentioned the words that Thoros told them to the captain, and he seemed to know just where they needed to start looking.

"The House of Black and White," the man had nodded. "I will point you in that direction when we arrive."

Sansa reached for Sandor, taking his hands in hers, and closed her eyes. But this time she saw no painful memories, felt no flashes of anger. This time, she only saw herself as she was now, though through his eyes, from above. She saw her face, and then he must have looked down, must have focused on her tummy, and she felt him squeeze her hands...though she did not think he did so on purpose. Sansa opened her eyes and pulled him closer, until he withdrew his hands from hers and sat beside her, pinching her chin between his fingers as he had so many times before...but gently this time, _truly_ gently.

"My love," she murmured. Sandor closed his eyes and bent his head toward hers until their foreheads were pressed together.

"My love," he repeated, his voice a gruff snarl full of emotion. Sansa's heart hammered in her chest; it was all she could do to not squeal in delight and throw her arms around him, though she knew she shouldn't do so. Instead she sought his lips with hers as he placed one large, hot hand over the small swell of her stomach. Even this lightest of touches sent a shiver up her spine, and Sansa felt that usual warmth pooling in her center as she took his free hand and guided it under the skirt of her shift. Sandor's fingertips found her folds already wet with her pleasure and she felt him smile against her mouth just before he moved his other hand from her stomach, curling it over her shoulder and pushing her down onto the bed.

When he broke their kiss Sansa _hmmed_ her displeasure, but Sandor only flashed a wicked grin as he shoved her shift up so that it bunched around her stomach. He then crouched between her legs and she felt the dichotomy of his face, half rough and strangely ridged, half smooth and almost _soft_ against the inside of her thighs. He kissed her there, one press of his lips to the delicate skin of her right thigh, another to the delicate skin of her left, before cupping his hands under her bottom and using his thumbs to open her for his tongue. He slowly traced its silky-smooth tip around the tender edges of her lips, and Sansa pushed herself toward him, wanting more, _more..._

Sandor chuckled, his breath hot and arousing so close to her opening. "Please..." Sansa murmured, and in response he dove into her, his tongue foreign yet firm as he buried it inside of her, drawing back slowly, removing it, only to flick its tip over her pulsing little pearl. Sansa reached for him, clawing at his hair without caring if she was hurting him, wanting to feel his mouth on hers, wanting to feel his weight pressing her into the bed, wanting to feel _him _inside of her. Keeping one hand around her arse and thigh, Sandor reached up with the other and caught her wrists in it, holding them still as he once again teased around her opening with his tongue, filled her with it and then withdrew, this time using it to firmly stroke her nub again and again and again, causing her entire body to quake with pleasure.

He finally paused a moment to ask, "Would my little bird like me to take her for true, now?" The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in annoyance or frustration or anger - this time, he seemed something like pleased, or amused. _He called me _his_ little bird,_Sansa realized with a smile.

"Yes," she breathed then. "Oh, yes."

Sandor moved up and lowered himself over her, carefully resting much of his weight on his hands as he slid inside of her with his usual smooth, heavy stroke. She felt as if she was on pins and needles, as if her skin was both ice cold and on fire at the same time. Sansa closed her eyes and tipped her head back with a low moan. "I am almost there, my lo - Sandor," she warned, forcing herself to say his name, knowing how he liked it when she did so.

"What is it, then?" he murmured against her mouth as he rolled his hips over hers, drawing himself up just slightly every time he moved to create a teasing sort of friction against that most sensitive spot. "Am I Sandor, or am I your love?"

"You are both, of course," Sansa replied breathlessly, arching herself into him, feeling her pleasure pooling in her center, nearly begging for its release. "So am I your little bird, or your love?" she couldn't help but ask.

"You are everything," Sandor grunted as he reached one hand beneath her to press against the small of her back, holding her to him as the heat within her spilled over, one wave after another crashing inside of her, so many that it took her by surprise and seemed to push him over the edge as well. She felt his manhood pulse within her, felt the warm wetness of his seed fill her, and the only thing that Sansa Stark knew just then was _everything._

**~ the end ~**

**First…thank you for all of the wonderful reviews! I'm glad so many of you have enjoyed this fic. I think I've said before that it was my baby fic, the first SanSan fic I ever started writing; I did entertain the idea of continuing it, writing of them reaching Braavos, finding Arya, etc…but to be honest things have gotten a bit crazy in my "real life" lately, and unfortunately I haven't felt quite as "into" this fic for some time now. In the end I decided a few weeks ago, for sure, that it would end with them leaving Westeros…and there you go. I think, better to end it here, as best I can, than leave it open and incomplete and never update it ;)**


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